My first oncology appointment and I have come out bouncing…
I have just been told that I have to have chemotherapy.
‘Strange woman’ I hear you think.
They can cure me.
I have chemo, then an op, then chemo.
Then I’m cured.
Ok, it’s not quite that simple, but I have a curative diagnosis.
That’s a start.
I can do this.
If I don’t do this, I will die.
I will do this.
I am ready to lose my hair.
My hair is the subject of much teasing by my friends and family. I have to wash it, and blow dry it every single day, even when I’m going to the hairdresser, where I am going to have it washed and blow dried. She tells me not to bother, but I can’t leave the house unless I have done my hair and make-up. She is 5 minutes by car, but someone may see me while stationary at the traffic lights!
I actually hate my hair. I have thin, dead straight, can do nothing with – hair.
I want long, wavy, Cheryl Cole hair.
My sister hates her hair. She has thick curly hair. She straightens hers every day. She hates washing it as it takes so long to dry and it goes frizzy.
Life’s not fair.
She has Mum’s hair.
Dad is bald.
I guess I’m going to take after him.
I can get a Cheryl Cole wig. YES!
I’ll also get a bright purple one, or a pink one. Let’s go bold.
I’ve heard from those who have lost their hair that when it grows back it comes back curly. DOUBLE YES!
I am not going to lose my hair.
Different chemo does different things, and mine only has a 1% chance.
It will however get thinner. Bugger!