(Sorry, couldn’t resist that post title.)

So a few days ago I went in to my trusted hairdresser Tracy (whom I’ve known for many years...she was the one who transformed me from long hair to shorter hair about 8 years ago) for my chemo haircut. In other words, the “cut it all off before I lose it” haircut. I had many people counsel that it would be easier if I had a little transition time with super short hair before getting to total baldness (and I think that was wise advice). I’d made the appointment a few weeks ago, and was dreading it as the time approached. Not because I thought I’d look bad with short hair, or that my hairdresser would do a bad job (she’s awesome). Rather, I was dreading it because I knew it was going to be another externally imposed transition, one that, just like with the boob reduction, touches on (and frankly, squeezes and stomps all over) core presentation of self and body image identity issues.

Now, I’ve done a lot of identity work in my life around my “outside standard beauty norms” body. (I’ve blogged about some of this before.) I had grown accustomed to and finally even proud of my zaftig curves, my curly hair, my Jewish nose. Sure, I knew I’d probably benefit from losing some weight, but I’d mostly made my peace with the pros and cons of extra flesh and knew how to work with it.  I had also finally gotten to a point in my life where I was feeling pretty confident about my personal style (the clothes I wear, my hair and jewelry and accessory choices). So in general, I was pretty happy with the way I looked and the self I presented to the world. But cancer came along (AGAIN) and has been messing with that confidence, over and over. First it was the vast reduction in boobage (which even now nearly three months later, I am still displeased and distressed about, and we’re not even done messing with the boobage yet). Now it’s the hair. Dammit, I was happy with my hair. I had finally settled on a length and style I liked, I had dialed in my preferred styling products, and I was enjoying having all the sparkly colorful tinsel bits in it.

As it turned out, the short haircut came out pretty dang cute. I have been described variously as “adorable”, “sassy”, “rockabilly”, “academic feminist” and “a Nagel painting”. I do look adorably butch, if I do say so myself. And I’m fine with all that, I’m even grateful that it turned out so well, but that isn’t really the point. The point is that as cute as I may be in this new incarnation, I DIDN’T CHOOSE THIS. So it’s weird for me when people compliment me on the new hairstyle (or for that matter on the new boobs). Even with all the positive feedback that I do look good with short hair (and that’s a good thing, since I’m gonna have short hair for probably at least a year before it grows back to something close to the length it was), I find myself mopey and irritable about it—because every time someone brings it up, or every time I look in the mirror, or every time I shower, it is literally an “in my face” reminder of how out of my control this whole cancer saga has felt so far. It’s like an advertisement for change, a repetitive warning not to get complacent because boom, at any moment the familiar and preferred may be yanked away whether I like it or not.

Here’s the other thing: this short hairstyle looks good enough that it could very well read to other people as a new style choice, and it can totally “pass” for now as a “normal” identity (albeit quite different from the one I used to present). So other than the possibility that I’ll be read by those who don’t know me as a butch lesbian rather than feminine straight woman (which actually kind of amuses me), the only identity work that comes with this haircut is in managing reactions from those who *do* know me but don’t know why I cut my hair. But in about a week or so, when it all falls out and I’m left with no hair, it’ll be pretty obvious that I am not merely choosing a new style (or a butch lesbian), but rather that I’m a cancer patient. So that “cancer patient” identity will be forcibly foregrounded, unless I choose to hide or disguise it (which truthfully I’m not that interested in doing). And “cancer patient” is a stigmatized identity (even though involuntary), so it’s going to be problematic just to look in the mirror, let alone walk around in the world. It will emphasize the cancer identity as a primary identity, which will have the effect of shoving all the other identities further down the totem pole, whether I want that or not. All people will see at first is the cancer me, not the mom me, or the writer me, or the handpan player me, or the burner me (ok, they might see the burner me if I get too far into the crazy hats). I have mixed feelings about that idea. On the one hand, I mostly hate it that the first thing people will associate me with right now is cancer, this thing I didn’t choose and don’t like and don’t ever want to deal with again. On the other hand, well, I’m thinking about my cancer saga all the time, I guess I might as well let other people in on the obsession some.

Okay, okay: it’s clear that there’s a struggle here on the way to acceptance. Don’t get me wrong, I’m prepared to submit to the inevitable; in fact, I’ve been expecting it for some time, so I’ve had a chance to plan my response. I could have chosen to cold cap or wear a wig, but I don’t want to cover up (see what I did there?) what’s happening to me. I have every intention of doing things “my way” and using this as yet another opportunity to practice flying my freak flag high and not giving a fig what other people think. I’m proud and determined to rock the bald look and not hide or be ashamed of what is happening to me (part of my whole “keeping it 100” resolution). Maybe I will even provide some inspiration to others who are going through or who will go through something similar.

However, I just want to make it perfectly clear that even as I do all this, I am also shaking my fist in defiance at the universe for having made me *have* to do all this, against my will. Because each treatment that happens, each side effect I endure, each change away from my previous "normal" self I experience on this treatment adventure is still a damn lemon, no matter how sweet the lemonade I make of it during or afterwards. Fuck you, lemons, and fuck you, cancer.