Screen Shot 2014-06-07 at 16.42.42When I mention chemotherapy to people it is always the hair they ask about… Here is a photo of me when it started to grow back -too much for a wig but too new to colour, I was 41 and it has taken me nine years to accept that this was me

 

Hair and care and barely there,

I see you stare, not fair…

For years and years it hid my ears,

Shrouded my fears of Dumbo jeers.

 

A wig, no matter how I try,

Is alien and makes me cry,

And whilst my legs look like they’re waxed,

The rest of me is not relaxed.

 

A scarf, you say, you do admire it,

It makes me look like I’m a pirate,

And please don’t buy another hat,

It’s kind, but there’s no fun in that.

 

I must accept an unclothed head,

Uncovered when I go to bed,

Look forward to short grey instead,

It’s only hair -that’s what you said!

 

The dignity, whilst it remained,

The vanity is unsustained,

A side effect of being cured,

From which I don’t feel reassured…

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