As I'll Ever Be

With my thumb, I applied pressure to the "On" switch. The small instrument in my hand buzzed to life as electricity pumped through it. The electric razor was vibrating. It tickled my palms as it sat in my hand. The blades, protected by a safety catch, moved back and forth in fast secession. It was clean and ready to go; I knew it would get the job done in no time.

I needed the closest shave possible.

I shifted back and forth, trying to get comfortable and firmly planted on the newspaper beneath my feet. Hair was always a pain to clean up and I wanted to create as minimal a mess as possible--didn't need any additional stress. I took a few deep breaths and felt ready to go. I placed my right hand on the chair in front of me and the clippers in my left, positioning myself to start shaving my client's head.

"You ready," I asked.

"As I'll ever be," she answered.

I let my left hand drop and the clippers connected with the front of my wife's head. I slowly pulled it towards me, letting the blades buzz off a strip of hair. Hair fell from her head, gently falling to the waiting newspaper and collecting on the floor. The only sound in the room was the buzzing of the blades. I had been holding my breath during that first strip, and now that it was done I could breathe again.

It was easier after that. As easy as shaving your wife's head could be.

My wife of 35 years, the mother of my two children, the occupational therapist and karaoke enthusiast asked me that morning to shave her head for her. The cancer had come back, for the fourth time in 6 years. First it was in her colon, then her ovaries and stomach. We were optimistic for awhile that she had finally beat it, that the cancer had moved on to better pastures. But one routine appointment brought it all back home.Now it was back in her colon and lungs. They caught it early, so the doctors said, and no surgery would be necessary. Another aggressive round of chemotherapy should keep the cancer from spreading further. It'd be easy this time.

But chemo is always a bitch.

She had hung in there like a champ for a few weeks. The effects were minimal at first and she was able to go about her normal routines. She was able to run and exercise and continue to eat what she wanted. But then they upped her dosage and everything changed. She had no energy, could barely keep food down and migraine headaches kept her in almost constant pain. In the last month, she has lost almost 10 pounds.

Her hair was the latest casuality.

She had prayed that this round of chemo wouldn't make her hair fall out. The first time it had and after 6 years, it finally grew back to its original length and thickness. She finally felt like herself and confident again in her own appearance. But chemo doesn't care about self-esteem.

She hid it from me at first. She wore her hair in ponytails all day long and wouldn't let me touch her hair. I didn't notice until I started finding clumps of hair in the tub and all over the bathroom. I'd quickly clean the drains and floors, wanting to keep up the charade and pretend that I didn't know what was happening. Let her keep an ounce of the dignity cancer was taking. I guess she had enough.

I was making her breakfast this morning when she asked me to shave her head. She didn't explain why and I didn't ask. I just set up the newspaper and chair and waited until she was ready.

"You okay," I asked after I finished part of her head.

"Yep," she answered quickly.

I kept going--strip by strip, letting her hair continue to fall to the floor. It didn't take long and I barely had to apply pressure to her skull. I took my time and made sure I was precise, but it took barely 15 minutes to finish. I set the clippers down on the kitchen table. I ran my hand over her freshly shaved head to check my work. It seemed pretty even to me, so I took the towel from her shoulders and shook the hair from it then brushed off her neck.

"Alright. I think..." I started to say as I crossed in front of her. Her eyes were closed tight but tears were falling down her face. My heart broke into a million pieces when I saw her face. I knelt down in front of her, took her face in my hands and whispered, "Hey, Hey.  Look at me."

Slowly she opened her eyes but she wouldn't look at me. I could tell the shame and embarrassment she was feeling.

"Look at me baby," I said.

"I can't."

"Why!"

"Because....I'm ugly."

"Honey, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. With or without hair."

"I'm barely a woman now," she said, finally looking up at me.

I stood up and lifted her into my lap. She was almost as light as a child now. "You are more of a woman to me bald then you would be if you had the thickest hair in the world." This only made her cry harder, as she leaned into my shoulder and let herself go. I just held her. Held her so tight that my arms ached from the pressure. We stayed like that for awhile; me holding her and her crying into my shoulder. Eventually she calmed down and pulled away from me slightly.

"It's just unfair," she said to break the silence.

"It is baby. It really is. And there's nothing I can say to make it all make sense. But I promise it will grow back. And in the mean time, I'm the luckiest man in the world."

"Why's that," she asked as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Because last night I went to bed with a blonde and tonight I'll go to bed with Sinead O'Connor."

A smile stretched across her face and we both broke into a fit of laughter. That was all I wanted. To hear her laugh and fill the negative mood with happiness for even a second. We hugged again, her pulling me in closely.  I could feel the pressure and stress release from her body.

And in that moment, I knew there was hope. I knew we'd beat the cancer as long as we could laugh our way through it. Together.

With or without hair.