Diary Entry: Shaving off my hair

“I climbed into the single mattress he’s been sleeping on in the living room next to the puppy’s crate. My primary carer. Now the puppy’s too. 

He welcomed me in and kissed my wet, salty cheeks and rocked me in his arms. 

I asked him to remember me being beautiful. 

I apologised for shifting our lives so seismically. 

I promised I’d be back and we’d get our life on track. 

He hushed me and reassured me and wept with me.

We fell asleep holding hands with a Tigers Eye pressed between our palms, sharing the same pillow that increasingly became covered with strands of my hair. 

That night I dreamed of skeletons, concentration camps and The Witches. 

The shave itself the following day wasn’t so bad, it was the aftermath that ensued. 

An emotional snap. 

The reality of this disease suddenly and rawly exposed. The positive spins, affirmations, mindful re-frames & stoic accommodations cast aside. My bald head a catalyst that catapulted us down to earth, a sober reality. Of the seriousness of the situation. The lack of choice. The lack of control. The fear and anxiety its brought. The shit show that it is. Our once carefree, wanderlust lifestyle that we worked so hard to build now infused with so much solemnity and scary unknowns. My brush with death, which is still so hard to contemplate. 

Our new, surreal circumstance reinforced by my new, surreal image.

I wailed all night. We howled together. The dog went mad as well. 

A raw release. 

A haircut never to be forgotten.”

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