Rapunzel, Rapunzel

It is interesting how the significance of hair changes throughout our lives.

At first it represents new beginnings. You are born into this world and It stares on in wonder at the fuzz gracing your tiny head. The baby-fine fibers an invitation to nuzzle and smell - each breath filling spectator’s lungs with the seemingly infinite possibilities, fears, and trepidations a baby carries. 

As a cancer patient, a bald head doesn’t garner quite the same wonder. You are thrust into a parallel-existence in which the patches of fuzz scattered across your globe now speak more about your Cancer’s potential than your own. The nonexistent fibers now an invitation for others to cling tightly - the uncertainty of time now painfully apparent to all in your orbit. Each breath filling spectator’s lungs with fears, trepidations, and the possibilities no one wants to acknowledge.

Your potential is no longer rooted in education, careers, and relationships but instead survival rates and clinical trial admittance. You are forced to sink lower into yourself than you have had to before, to turn over the rocks within your core and hope for something to make sense. You wait for your hair to grow back between infusions, an in-between existence in which you are still a cancer patient but look the part a bit less - the hair you once knew now growing back wild and unruly like it did when you were a child.

I often think about what it would be like if I could go back and visit with my younger self. Each version of my existence staring at the other with our feral curls fraying at the edges of our faces. One of our heads reminding our Mother of her own adolescence. The other’s reminding her of our fragility. 

My younger self would stare at me, confused as to why we didn’t grow up looking like Elizabeth Berkley as we had imagined. I would stare back, wishing my younger self didn’t have to grow up. I would squeeze her and inhale deeply, breathing in the neon smell of Kindergarten finger paints and watermelon L’Oreal Kids, thinking about the countless pony tails, flatirons, and bobs that hair would find itself in over the years, and how eventually it would all be gone. “You’re going to do great,” I would whisper in her ear, not sure if I entirely believe it myself. 

As a child, hair-growth marks a transition - our personalities forming as quickly as our frayed mullets. Our hair begins to reveal more behind the curtain of minivans and sedans that drop us off and whisk us away each day. We begin to identify the kids with the perfectly French-braided pigtails as those with the fully-stocked lunches - a good indication their family has a robust pantry as well as a trampoline. 

We can also identify the kids whose knotted hair extends from their scalp in every direction, unwilling to be contained much like the neon jelly that streaks across their face. These are the ones with the $1 fruit pies and margarine sandwiches no one wants to trade on the lunchroom floor. (A.K.A. Yours Truly.)

I would hold onto my younger self as I knelt on the playground, attempting to keep her from the world of comparison that was waiting for her. From being told she couldn’t be Rapunzel because of course only those with long blonde braids could be Rapunzel. From learning how to make herself smaller. 

I would guide her to the swing set she always liked, where she would feel like she was flying as she closed her eyes and launched into the air. 

I would give her a push, and watch as her tangled tresses flew in every direction. “Keep flying,” I would say under my breath, a silent prayer that I knew would be futile. “Keep saying you want to be a horse when you grow up,” I would encourage. After all, I often find myself wishing I was a Labrador these days. Curious how it takes adults a bit of unlearning to realize that maybe our younger selves were onto something.

My younger self would giggle as her swing came back down from having completed its trajectory. Any pain she’d experienced to date not piercing enough to be more than a distant memory.

I would wish I could tell her that the only time we would look like the Crypt Keeper in our life would be when our older sister decided she could save our family money on a summer haircut and removed our bangs entirely. I would wish I could tell my younger self that the only clumps of hair that would fall out were by the hand of our other sister after we had accidentally painted the nails/entire hand of her Barbie with Mom’s red nail polish because it’s a Summer color and we were in fact in Summer…

I would wish the only thing we had to watch swirl down the drain was the acrylic paint from 5th grade art camp and not the clumps of hair that could no longer withstand a mere brush of my hand across the scalp. Even if L’Oreal Kids was still an option I wouldn’t dare open my eyes mid-lather, afraid of what greeted me. 

The wooded scratch of her small velcro-shoes as they raked the mulch below the swings would  awaken me from perturbed musings. My younger self ready to move on, and I not ready for her to. I’d invite her to play House, an ironic attempt at slowing her reach for adulthood. I’d offer to be the family Labrador and she could be whatever she wanted, even Rapunzel. Even a horse. 

She would acquiesce, but would spend an inordinate amount of time doing her hair and makeup in a nonexistent mirror. I would howl in distaste as I recognized her understanding that, at a certain point, hair becomes our version of iridescent plumage and the first steps of the courting dance we practice in hopes of finding a partner. 

Hours spent flattening our curls or curling our flat hair. Again, painfully aware of what we don’t have and using heat-wand sorcery to transform ourselves. As we age, we begin to wield the power to change our hair color and length. We can now be Rapunzel. We may now let down our hair in the hopes of someone climbing up to join us in our castle. 

I would block the doorway of the old wooden house we had spent countless recess-hours inside, spinning our own tales from the foundations of those that came before us. I would look out onto the playground, long abandoned from my memory. I would let out one final yowl, a warning to all who dare enter to take us from this bubble. As I turned back, I would discover that while I was fixated on what lay ahead for my younger self, she had grown up with the dreams I had carried for years. 

I would watch as she pantomimed straightening her long hair and applying mascara to her long eyelashes. She would toss her head back and smile in the nonexistent mirror, making sure she didn’t look too fake or too normal, hovering on that razor-thin line of laid-back and beautiful. Do I tell her she’ll eventually be tipping her head back into the bathroom sink as her partner takes his clippers to the meager amounts of hair Chemo hasn’t yet claimed?

Maybe not right now.

I would watch as she ran her fingers through her hair one final time, a slight frown forming from how the thin strands tangle around her fingers. “Yes, it will always feel like spiderwebs and used floss my dear,” I bark from the doorway, still attempting to play my part in this quickly crumbling game of Make Believe. 

The picture fractures, if only for a second. In its place flashes the image of me sitting in the middle of my hospital room, alone. I run my hands through my hair one final time as I wait for my head to once again be shaved, this time by a complete stranger.  

The picture corrects and I am once again staring at myself as she frowns slightly in the metaphorical mirror. I would walk over to her and lean down to nuzzle once more. The smell of flowers lingers where the scent of watermelons used to rest. I close my eyes as I begin to wrangle our hair into the single braid we had always wanted.

If only I could tell myself to not get too attached - to forget that we were trying to be Rapunzel. 

As I weave the thin strands into a singular rope, the reel of my various hairstyles comes flooding in from the recesses of my mind. The frizzy bob that wouldn’t dare be contained. The equally frizzy shoulder length cut that rested on my under-sized button-down in that yearbook photo that left many wondering if I was learning Algebra or if I could do their taxes. The tailored curls that cascaded from my graduation cap. The peppy ponytail, only slightly disheveled after finishing a half-marathon. The reel cuts out. 

I am standing alone in the old wooden house. It feels smaller than it did. 

I realize my hair represents a lot more to me than I thought. The weight it bares and meaning it holds has shifted, like it has done my entire life. I am just now awake enough to appreciate the transformation.

I always strove to be an “Outlier.” For years I pushed myself to stand out in some twisted sense of superiority. I raced for the top of whatever mountain was in front of me, ready to claim my seat and the crisp air that was sure to be waiting at the top.

Then I actually became an Outlier. My acknowledged courage not gained, as I had once imagined, by attacking some corporate hierarchy with supreme grace and tenacity. Instead, it was earned by waiting quietly in seats until my name was called so I could hold up my flimsy wrist for a Nurse to confirm I was in fact who I was volunteering to be.

Perhaps me spending an inordinate amount of time pondering this is an attempt to find what makes me unique as I fade back into “normal” life. I do that a lot lately, spend an inordinate amount of time ruminating about where I am and how I’ve gotten here. (Pro tip: If you say you’re “ruminating” it doesn’t sound as narcissistic…) I often think about the ripples I radiate into the world. Those in front of me, on a horizon I can’t quite make out - and those behind me, taking on a new light from this retrospective vantage point.

Perhaps all of this started two weeks ago, when I cut off the shoulder length curls I had been growing out for the past two years. Or perhaps I was thrown into a spiral of introspection (it doesn’t take much to do that these days) when I was asked if I was nervous to cut all of my hair off this time.

At first I wondered why someone would ask me that. Was this a question most people are asked if they chop off their thin mane? I never had a say in the hair-loss matter before so I must admit that my litmus for people’s reactions to one drastically changing hairstyles is a bit skewed.

Pre-diagnosis, a haircut represented a slight change in my appearance that garnered a quick, “Did you get a haircut? It looks nice!,” before we all went about our days. Afterwards, it seems to represent much more.

I have been fortunate enough to work with the same Hairstylist for five years now. From day one of stepping into his salon, Paul* worked to thicken my baby-fine hair and has since witnessed the two years of growth after the tresses he had been tenderly maintaining were wiped clean.

Paul was the one who gave me the last haircut before Treatment started. 

My Mom was with me for that visit. It was the first time she had been with me for a haircut since I was probably 14. I had been falling in slow motion since my doctor told me that I had Lymphoma, my life feeling as if it was flying away from me in every direction as I sank downwards. 

There I fell, grasping for the various relics of my Life as I fell past. I clung to whatever I could, reaching for some sense of control over everything. I spent so much of my youth planning, plotting, and striving, and here I was, tumbling, scrambling, and realizing. Realizing I didn’t have as much control over my life as I thought. Maybe I couldn’t be Rapunzel. 

How easy it is to be so naive when your head is in the ground. Naive to your Privilege and Fragility. Naive to how the World spins on with or without you. The Sun rises. The Sun sets. Rinse. Repeat.

I had reached out to Paul a few days after I had received my diagnosis to see if he could fit me in last minute. I needed to get to my hair before the drugs could. Fortunately, Paul was gracious enough to squeeze me in.

A weight bore down on my chest as we drove to the salon that day. I had driven there countless times before. This time however, I hoped the road wouldn’t end. I can only imagine my Mom felt the same way, out of a profound desire that the circumstances for our Mother-Daughter salon-outing were different. I’ve never actually asked her how she felt that day. So Mom, if you are reading this, thank you for going with me to that haircut. I am so sorry you had to. 

I had contemplated trying a short haircut in recent years, never bold enough to move forward. (What would someone think?) Instead, I kept my hair long, even though my hair tends to have a mind of its own once it goes past my chin. Thin tentacles intertwining like an air plant, searching for nutrients that my head can’t seem to provide. However, a pixie cut that day represented a diagnosis rather than a decision to finally be bold.

I was not a badass. I was sick. 

My palms were sweaty as we pulled up to the salon, not sure if it was another fever spike or nerves for what was about to come. I stopped my Mom as we rounded the corner of the old brick-building. I wanted a picture, a picture of “Before,” feeling like the “After” this haircut signified was more than just an adventurous phase in my life.

We took the photo, me smiling as if it was any other day. Deep down, my heart was pounding. Not because I was afraid of what the scissors were about to do. I never had really found my identity in my hair. (If the air plant analogy didn’t paint enough of a picture as to why this might be the case, I can’t help you…)

My heart was pounding from what I was simultaneously running away from and sprinting towards. To cut my hair was an acknowledgement of my vulnerability. 

Paul greeted us warmly with a hug. I felt so much smaller than I used to in that embrace. I felt like I had regressed back into my 8-yr-old self - my Mom taking me to Fantastic Sams before the school year started for my typical bob haircut. (Nothing showed off the Dr. Seuss suspenders quite like a chin length bob…Mini-Aubrey, you saucy minx.) 

I felt like a baby bird, about to be thrust from a nest into a profound darkness that lay in front of me, waiting to engulf me with its various procedures and infusions - a darkness punctuated with symptoms that I could not anticipate and prognoses that I didn’t expect to come. I found my voice catch in my throat as I stayed in the embrace for a few seconds. My eyes burned as I fought back tears. 

If I cut off my hair, who will be able to visit me in my castle? 

I excused myself to the bathroom and ran the water as I stared at myself in the mirror. I took a deep breath and listened to my Mom thank Paul for squeezing me into his schedule today. I couldn’t catch every word, as the blood pounding in my ears didn’t quite get the memo about the principles of eavesdropping. I caught bits of what was being said, “Sorry,” (Was that Paul or my Mom? Dammit Mom we gotta stop saying “sorry” so much…) “…pull an Annie Lennox” (“Buh buh buh…buh buh on Broken Glaaaaaa-aaa-aaaasss…” Dang that’s a catchy song. Wait, what about Annie Lennox?) Thank Goodness my Mom is buying all this time for me to ponder Annie Lennox’s discography in this bathroom right now. Pull it together, Aubrey…If you rub your eyes like they itch maybe we can brush the redness off as allergies. 

45 minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom… It was only about 5 minutes but we covered a lot of ground internally in those few minutes. When I emerged, it was as if my Mom knew all that had transpired behind the bathroom door. She quickly summarized what her and Paul had discussed…Maybe we don’t cut all of the hair off today. 

I exhaled, a sigh of relief. Baby steps. I could push off the inevitable a bit longer. I didn’t need to beat it to the finish line, I just needed to stay in front of it a bit. So there I was with my Mom, once again getting a bob. (Nothing shows off a backless gown quite like a chin length bob…Mid-20s Aubrey, you saucy minx.) 

And here I am two weekends ago, asking for the Annie Lennox. This time I did not have to give myself a pep-talk in the bathroom mirror beforehand. I walked in alone, spoke without having to hold back tears, and walked out as someone who just got a new haircut.

Except this haircut did not come with fistfuls of hair releasing in the shower as follicles jumped ship from drugs circulating underneath the surface of my scalp. No, this haircut came with me continuing forward, spinning onwards with the Earth like the hair that found its way down the drain so many months ago. The Sun rises. The Sun sets. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I stand alone in the old wooden house, a slight squeak from the swing set beckoning from across the playground. I stare at myself in the nonexistent mirror, taking in my short hair and the neon purple jelly streak that adorns my cheek. I wipe it off and tousle my hair encouraging it to reach skyward, like it had done for so many years. I no longer want to be Rapunzel. I’ll tell everyone to start taking the stairs. 

*Names were changed to protect privacy