The Journey to a Shaved Head

A few months ago, I was sitting in a youth service when two beautiful young ladies came into the room.  One of these young girls was in a wheel chair.  I knew nothing of these girls, I didn’t know their story, their names or even who they arrived with, but my heart went out to them.  Not in a sympathetic, I feel so bad for her being in a wheel chair sort of way, but in a compassionate, heartfelt, I love these girls sort of way.  

About 2 weeks went by and I hadn’t thought much else about these girls.  I hadn’t seen them and I’d been preoccupied with the business of my own life, when I was asked if a woman named Sharon could contact me and tell me a little about these girls.  Of course my response was an immediate “yes.”  Sharon contacted me via email and connected me with website managed by their mom where I could read their story and daily challenges.  I quickly learned that there were more children in the family and they all struggled with similar medical disorders that have tremendous impact on the brain and basic function.  I sat at my computer for nearly 3 hours, tears streaming down my face as I read these blog entries, over and over, trying to make sense of it all, and feeling so insignificant.  I sat and I prayed, and I looked at my two perfect little girls and I cried and it didn’t seem fair.  This poor mother struggling with all of her children, why was I blessed with such an “easy” route??  

I looked through the pictures and I thought about these sweet children especially these pre-teen girls who had to shave their heads for their brain surgeries.  I thought about myself as a pre-teen girl and how devastating that would have been for me.  I thought about myself now, how much vanity is tied up in my hair; how much time is spent fussing over it in the mirror, how much money is spent on expensive shampoos, conditioners and styling products, or time and money at the salon.  How much emphasis I place on fixing my girls’ hair “just right.”  I felt sick.  What vanity!  How much had I invested into something so trivial?  What kind of message was I sending to my daughters?  I thought about these girls, and I wanted to love them.  These girls didn’t know me.  They’d never heard my name.  They probably didn’t even see me across that dark youth room several months ago.  I wanted to know what it was like.  I wanted to feel the vulnerability of not having the superficiality of a pretty head of hair to rely on.  I wanted to shave my head. 

I struggled with this thought.  I was fighting my own insecurities.  I wanted to shave my head but I was fearful of what that would mean.  I was fearful of how I’d be responded to.  I was fearful of how my husband would respond to me.  How would I explain that I wanted to completely alter my appearance for complete strangers?  I dropped hints at the idea.  I wanted to see how people would respond.  Sitting at the dinner table one evening with my family and best friend, I said, “I think I’m going to shave my head.”  I was met with overwhelming opposition.  I didn’t know how to explain to them WHY I wanted to do it.  My husband pleaded with me, not to shave my head, and so I didn’t…

Two weeks later—more vanity.  On a whim, my husband and I decided to dye my hair.  I wanted something different, he wanted to see how I’d look with dark locks.  When we were finished with our evening experiment, my bathroom was a speckled mess and I was devastated.  What was supposed to be brown came out jet black.  I became obsessed with trying to fix it.  I spent hours staring in the mirror, trying to figure if it was better straight, maybe if I twisted it this way, or fixed my makeup that way…ugh, I’m just going to re-dye it.  So I went and bought more hair dye.  My mom and I spent another 2 hours trying to dye it, and style it, my recently assaulted scalp was burning from all of the chemicals, and the result was exactly the same.  At this point I was obsessed, and then in a moment it all became crystal clear.  You are more than hair.  These girls are more than hair.  So much time, energy, money and emotion has been wasted over something so superficial—cut it off.  I said it, and everyone gasped.  At that point it no longer mattered.  I knew why I had to do it.  It wasn’t because of the hair dye, it wasn’t because of anything but standing up and affirming within myself that my value is more than my appearance.  

As Alex left to pick Michaela up from school and Emily was contentedly playing with dinosaurs in her room, I parted my hair into 4 pony tails and I lifted the scissors to it.  My heart was racing as contemplated, not doing it, but then I made the first cut and the second, and the third, and the fourth.  I stood there with a mess of odd lengthed hairs all over my head and then I picked up the clippers.  There was no going back.  I started to shave, and I started to cry.  I cried because all at once I knew what it felt like to no longer feel like a girl and I knew what these two girls felt.  As I stepped from the bathroom with a bag full of my hair, my beautiful 3 year old daughter looked up at me and started to cry.  Through sobs, she told me to “put your hair back on mommy, you look like a boy!” I knew I made the right decision.  I’d been teaching her all wrong!

When Alex got home, he was upset.  Michaela didn’t say a word.  At dinner, he wouldn’t look at me.  He didn’t kiss me, or hold me as we went to sleep that night.  He said, “At least you still have a pretty face.”  He didn’t understand why I made the decision, and I didn’t know how to tell him.  The next morning, at breakfast, Michaela still hadn’t commented on my hair.  Knowing that I was about to take her to school and be seen by all of her friends, I wanted to be sensitive of my child’s feelings.  I asked her what she thought about my hair and if she was ok with her friends seeing me without any hair, and immediately she started to sob.  “No, mommy, it looks weird, will you PLEASE wear a hat when you take me to school?!”  I too had been teaching her all wrong.

The next few days I was frequently asked if I was crazy, or I “pulled a Brittany” no one knew the real reason.  I didn’t think that they’d understand how strangers had such an impact on my heart, and why I’d shave my head for a family who had never seen me and didn’t even know my name.  The response was mostly positive.  “Well, you have a good head shape for it”  “I’m surprised, you still look very feminine”  “Wow, you’re brave.”  When it came out on Facebook, I finally revealed the real reason, or as best as I could in a few words of a status.  I was overwhelmed with praise and encouragement and positive words and thoughts, “likes” and gratitude.  I met the family virtually.  They gave me such positive reinforcement.  They wrote kind words about me and praised me for what I’d done.  I became the “talk” of the web, and all of a sudden I felt like it was all wrong.  I didn’t do it for fame, I didn’t do it for attention, or praise.  I did it because of a deep conviction.  

I had been so afraid of how everyone would respond to me that I felt like I had to be honest about my motives.  I thought that maybe if they knew why I did it, they wouldn’t think I was crazy, they could look past the glare coming off of my scalp—and most could.  The truth is though, this society is superficial.  I get stared at everywhere I go.  And even though there is no way I could ever understand the physical pain that these children deal with daily, I think I’ve had a glimpse at the emotional pain, because the truth is, people don’t relate to me the same way, and no matter how much it is said that people support me, or are proud of me, I’m still the “freak” in the room—and for them, I’m ok with that.