Tears at the barbershop

Yesterday, I confirmed an appointment with the oncologist. It took nearly a week to get through, but finally... I made the schedule. My appointment is for tomorrow (Thursday).

I have been wearing my hair cut very close/short for over a decade. Twelve years to be exact. Though there have been a few times when I attempted to grow it out, wore braids or whatever... within a few weeks, I was back in Butch's chair telling him... "take it low and keep it tight". He always obliged.

Cutting my hair was actually my first adult step into embracing my femininity and my beauty. Without excessive vanity, I can say that I am an attractive -- even pretty -- woman. It took me so long to feel that way. And cutting my hair off, served as a catalyst for that.

Over the years, I have thoroughly enjoyed my brief forays into the 70's world of Brice's Barbershop. Most of the barbers in this shop are well into their 60's. The place has wood paneling and a poster of hairstyles that must have been printed in 1972. The fros are big and some of them are very fancy... I always chuckle or smile when I see that poster. Brice's has not (and probably will not) undergo a fancy renovation to bring it up to current designer standards. It is not the "hot spot". And I love it for that. It is always the same... everytime. (as you can guess continuity makes me comfortable)

When this talk of chemotherapy came up and I was warned several times that I would lose my hair... I thought little of it. I typically have less than 1/4 inch of hair on my head. I wouldn't miss it. Hair was not the definition of my beauty -- no more than my breasts were.

Or so I thought.

I told myself that when it was time for the chemotherapy to start, I would cut my hair really close for one last time. That way, when it started to shed and fall out, few would realize it and my "look" would still be rather consistent. I'd still be... Nic. And afterwards, when it began to grow back, I would finally allow it to be as long as it wanted to grow.

So, as I said in the beginning... I found out yesterday that tomorrow I see the oncologist. Last night, when I left the office, I decided to get my hair cut. My plan was to tell Butch that I'd be gone for awhile and that I wanted him to make my last tight fade... as pretty as he could. (He cut my hair so well for me on my 35th birthday... folks were stopping me on the street to comment)


But as I sat in the chair waiting for my turn... I just couldn't say goodbye. Going to Brice's has been a constant in my life since I was an adult. My first apartment was around the corner. My second was a few blocks away. For awhile, it was my weekend ritual to head to Eastern Market, get a haircut, grab some food and just absorb the coolness of the neighborhood. Even now, while I live many miles away, going to Eastern Market and to Brice's... is like coming home.

I didn't cry when Butch first cut off my hair. I was angry and I just wanted it off my head. I have heard many stories of breast cancer victims opting to cut off their hair and how traumatic it was for them. I did not believe it would be traumatic for me. How could it be, when I have scoffed at the notion of even having hair at all for so long?

It was heartwrenching.

I always anticipated going to the shop, laughing at the guys and just enjoying being included in a very male world for about 30 minutes. Last night was totally different for me. I left the shop with tears in my eyes. I wanted to hug Butch and tell him... but I couldn't. I wanted to say something to the sister who now cuts hair in there... but I just couldn't do it. The other barbers weren't there... and I wanted to say a goodbye to them too. They have shared snippets of their lives with me over the years... so I think of them as distant uncles. These folks mean something to me.

So, I don't know if the tears were for my hair or for a relationship that will probably be severed. (as a woman, I can't see myself just sitting in the shop on a Saturday afternoon shooting the breeze) I left... feeling the breeze on my scalp. And I headed straight to my boyfriend's arms for a good cry.

Why is this so damn hard?