When I was fifteen I had luscious, flowing, golden locks. My hair sat on my head with purpose, waves and curls floating down to below my shoulders with natural highlights that glinted in the sun.
And then, suddenly, boys happened.
As my Father would say “all boys are bad news”. For once, he was spot on.
Over my lifetime I have been prone to changing my hair quite drastically, time and time again. This would usually occur when I was having boy trouble, and this is how it would happen. I would be happy as pie, smitten about a boy, then he would break my heart and my hair would be in for it.
In some ways this process was not too dissimilar to that of Bridget Jones’; but whilst she may drown her sorrows with a large glass of rosé and tub of ice cream, I was more likely to reach for the peroxide.
I have chopped and changed from a blonde pixie cut to black extensions and even ventured to the red bob. My hair has been on an emotional rollercoaster, getting me through many a difficult time.
Like many other aspects that have been affected by my illness, my hair has been too. The copious amounts of medication I take each day have left my hair lifeless, dry and dull, and if I was not lucky enough to have a ridiculous sum of hair to begin with, I would be somewhat bald by now after losing huge clumps each and every day. Not only that, but my feeling of fragility has lead me to play it safe, hoping that by going aunatural I will be able to somehow rid my body of all the unpleasantness.
It appears that this outlook has not worked, another year on and another relapse under the belt. Therefore, that old voice came compellingly back, a hairstyle change is exactly what the Doctor ordered.
This week something strange happened. It is the first instance that I have radically chopped off my hair, for me, and only me (and not because of a boy). After spending a week in hospital unable to even wash, let alone pamper myself in anyway, I thought it was time to bite the bullet and book in for my six monthly cut.
As I up my steroids and think about options including chemo, it seems only right that I chop off the drug imbedded hair and allow myself a fresh start, say goodbye to those dead ends and hello to a new healthier me.
Whilst it has helped in some ways to rid myself of past feelings and take a plunge into the unknown, sometimes it takes more than the swipe of some scissors and lathering on shop bought dye, to mend a broken heart. That being said, looking back at yourself in the mirror and seeing the new you, is something I have been able to find comfort in.
It feels so right to watch the broken ends fall to the floor of the salon, like poetry, hacking out all the bad, making way for a new beginning.
My new locks