Hey, Who Cut Your Hair?

I laughed my ass off the first time I heard Cheech & Chong do this routine. (I was 14).

I remember me and my friends would channel Cheech & Chong whenever we saw someone who just got a haircut. We would just bag on (that was our word for making fun of someone) the poor dude who got a haircut. Of course, the worst was, "hey, who cut your hair. Your old lady? Your Mom?" (I think a few blows came out of that one, once or twice). And this was the '70's, so there was no such thing as PC, no PDA's, security checks and all the things school kids face today. It was merciless, unabashed, "your mama" jokes, out-in-the-open taunts––all in good fun. No, really.

So when I cut my hair last Sunday (or should I say when Teresa cut my hair) I thought about the main reason I had grown it past the middle of my back––to donate it to Locks of Love, an organization that takes hair donations and makes wigs for kids who have lost their hair due to cancer. Teresa even asked me twice if wanted her to cut it. Twice I said yes. This was the least I could do for those children who have to face every day at school, at the mall and at the mirror without their hair.

When I would wait for my radiation treatments, I would see a few kids who were also in treatment. I'd talk to them or their parents. Ask them how they felt. How did it feel without the hair. Tell them I was losing my hair, too. Just not as much. But I could feel their pain of having been teased or called "baldy" or "skinhead" or "scully." And I decided right then and there if I survived cancer––actually, when I beat cancer––I would grow my hair so some little dude or girl could not have to worry about some kid asking, "hey, what happened to your hair." So when I had 10 inches of hair to donate––I donated over 10––and Teresa was cutting it and cutting last week, I was smiling. Because it felt so good inside to do this simple little act. And because I could hear rattling in my head, Cheech & Chong, saying "hey, who cut your hair?"

My ol' lady did.

Hair Line

"How do you get a hair line like that at 50?"

Someone asked me that the other day. Or should I say a dude asked me that question. (Have you figured out he was losing his hair yet?). I get a lot of comments on my hair. I always have. It seems like people think it's their right to say something about my hair. Funny, I don't say anything to people about their hair. "Hey, how long you been a bald-headed bastard?", "you get a haircut after you finished that bowl of soup?", "what, they ran out of your regular hair color?", "do you think I don't notice that comb-over?", "how the hell you comb that thing on your head?", "can you stay out of the light, you're blinding me here!". Never once have I said any of those things to people. Never. (OK, maybe when I was piss drunk and bagging on my friends).

I was born with fire engine red hair, at least that's what my GrandMaree said. She said it looked like my hair was on fire it was so red. My hair was really red and curly when I was a kid. As I got older, it got darker. And people would ask me if I dyed it. Yeah, at 15-years-old, I'm gonna dye my hair. But I was asked that all time. Still am. And now that it's really long––pony tail long––I get even more comments. I even asked a former client one time about my hair. I said, "it's one thing not to like an ad. But if we don't know what you don't like about it, we'll keep making the same mistake over and over again. If I asked you if you liked my hair and you said no, I would ask you why." He said, "And I'd tell you, because it's messy." This from a man with a comb-over. Swear to God. I bit my tongue so hard I thought it was going to bleed. But hey, I asked him and he told me what he felt. Give him credit for that.

When I was going through radiation and chemo for head & neck cancer, my hair was falling out. It changed color, with a long white streak right down the middle. It looked like I hardly lost any hair at all. But I have a lot of hair. And I lost it in clumps. I just had so much, it wasn't noticeable to everyone. Maybe it was because it was so long. Maybe it was that I had such bad acne––not teenage acne, but that's what the Erbitux did to my face, make it break out like a teenager going through puberty––and no one noticed my hair falling out. Who knows? But I did. I also knew that I was trying to grow it as long as I could.

When I was going to radiation 5 days a week, for a full 7 weeks, I saw many others in the waiting room with varying stages of hair loss. It was a painful and visible reminder that this stuff was beating the crap out of our bodies. But the lasting image that got me the most was a little boy without any hair. He had to be about 7 or 8. He looked sad. He looked embarrassed. He looked me straight in the eye one day, looked at my long hair and looked back at me right in the eye. I knew what he was thinking. Why does he have hair and I don't? I felt for him. I felt he was probably getting picked on, just like I did when the kids on the playground called me carrot top, Woody Woodpecker or asked me if my hair was on fire. 

I knew then that I would grow more hair as long as I can. Cut it and donate it so someone could use it to cover their head. Kids, actually. Give my hair to those kids who have to suffer not only the pain and after effects of radiation, but the ignorance of their friends and other kids their age who tease them. Hey, kids don't know any better. But I know better. I know that the simple act of growing my hair long and getting it cut so other cancer victims can cover up their heads, is the least I can do. So the next time someone asks me about my hair, I'll give them the hair line. I'm a cancer survivor and growing it to donate it.

I'm sure I'll see some red on their head.