But you wouldn’t think a cowgirl would have a hard time losing her hair.

So far I’ve been able to rely on some innate strength, courage, and bravado to navigate the last few months of breast cancer. I’ve gathered strength from family, friends, and God. Just remembering that he has a plan for my life has given me peace that this illness is more than some sort of random maelstrom with an unknown conclusion. God is at work, and he has a plan.

Even facing my first surgery, and then my second, I felt pretty peaceful. I remember the night before the mastectomy, looking at my breast and saying goodbye to a part of my body that had been part of my womanhood and nurtured both my children. It was hard, but I felt peace. I was sacrificing a breast for good health and a future. It seemed a fair trade.

After I recovered from the second surgery, chemotherapy loomed. There are many, many, many potential side effects. There are thick booklets and manuals and classes to inform you of the variety of ways in which chemo will impact your life. For starters, there’s the more common things like stomach problems, and fatigue. Your white and red blood cells are impacted, which can lead to infections and anemia. And then there are the more odd and obscure effects, like the impact on your fingernails and toenails (they can actually come off!), neuropathy (your hands and feet can get numb and lose sensation), and loss of taste (your tastebuds die out and everything tastes the same. I can taste pretty spicy things–I had a turkey sandwich today with pepper jack cheese, garlic spread, and dijon mustard that I enjoyed. But bland food tastes like rubber, cardboard, styrofoam or playdough depending on the texture.)

But of all of the things I’ve faced so far, the hardest, so far, has been the prospect of losing my hair. My mom (partly disabled, who lives with us) kept trying to reassure me with some charismatic type pronouncements of “You are not going to lose your hair.” But I knew it was inevitable; the oncologist said the hair comes out two weeks after the first treatment.

With my fuzzy headed bro-in-law, David

And from the very first pathology report that indicated I would need chemo, losing my hair has frightened me. It’s such a primal experience. It exposes your head, which hasn’t seen the light of day since infancy. It takes away a major marker of femininity. It throws your features into the spotlight (my big nose! My crooked smile!) It sets you apart from most other women. It slots you into the ranks of the seriously ill. It makes people stare at you. And feel sorry for you. It makes you look weak. You have to make the decision of how to cover your head: scarf? Cap? Hat? Wig? Or…going commando and just proudly wearing your bald head out into the world.

This last Sunday I wore a wig to church for the first time. It was excruciating. It needed some trimming and shaping because it was just too bulky. I felt so self-conscious, like I was walking around with a big black mop on my head. I thought about myself all during the service (sorry, God), and at Chipotle after I almost broke into tears at the table feeling sorry for myself. Somehow having no hair kicked my butt. What happened to my inner cowgirl? How have I been able to face surgery and chemo, but not the thought of being bald? I feel like such a weak willed wimp.

Then something happened Sunday on the way out of church. We were walking down the steps in a hurry (so I didn’t have to talk to anybody or see them look at my wig) and I noticed a young guy walking slowly in front of us. He had his arm bent awkwardly across the front of his body. When I got closer, I noticed that he had a deformity. His right wrist and hand were mangled and twisted together, and he held it gently across the front of his body. He walked slowly, alone, with grace and composure. And the sight rocked me.

His hand had somehow been taken from him, and it’s not going to grow back. He can’t use it. It’s very visible, and I’m sure he gets stared at often. Yet, and yet, he’s alive. He’s happy. He’s beautiful. And he’s a survivor. I, on the other hand, had been obsessing over the temporary shutdown of some hair follicles as a side effect to medication that will give me a better chance at future health. I had been obsessed with myself and as I walked behind the young guy I saw a different, less self conscious, more gracious way of living. I want that. And if giving up my hair will move me further along that path, I accept it.

I’m going to try it again. I’m going back to church this Sunday. And my goal is to center on God and his goodness and faithfulness. Not my fuzzy little head.

So here’s where you come in. I need your help. I’m taking a poll. Should I wear my wig (which I’ve since had trimmed and it looks pretty good)? Or should I wear a hat? Or go commando and wear nothing? Whatever the results say, I’m going to do. Hair, or lack of it, is trivial. I’m not going to let not having hair take up any time or emotions or spiritual energy. It’s just hair, darnit!

Leave me a comment: Go to church commando, hat, or wig? It’s your call.