Shaved it all Off

All the follicles meant nothing if they could not keep her alive or breathe any kind of strength back into her bones. The wilting still wilted. Her days measured in revolving hospital doors and it was tiring but she came back for the faces like her own, half hope, half despair. Over prolonged doses of Methotrexate, they bonded over what they were losing or had already lost to cancer- People, things— none more important than the other. She tried to stay out of those conversations but she needed them too. To remember that this journey could be cruel and sometimes too swift. To never become immune to the loss. She always wanted to feel it, let it pass through and sometimes it did. Sometimes the grief was all she could breathe see and feel. The morning her hair started to fall, reality shifted. All this while she could pretend there wasn’t something eating her alive and that her body hadn’t betrayed her so. A bald head was different. Everyone will know, they’ll ask and she would have to say,

“I’m dying”.

“I can’t respond to your email, I’m dying”.

“I don’t want to have a birthday party, I’m dying”. “

I can’t make the trip, I’m dying”.

All of it would be true. Somewhere between the first clump of hair and the buzzing sound of the clipper, she found the courage to look in the mirror… attempt a smile. it had been too long. Her friends would gasp and one would hand her a scarf or many scarves. She would reject it… Might as well go down swinging.