Never a full-on Mohawk—but a faux hawk? Ah, yes. I can’t remember a time in my life that I didn’t want one.
But here’s the thing. I’ve never done more than want one. I’m 32. So, that’s a long time to want a thing and never get it. Or, in this case, do it. Get or do, whatever. And what better time than when you’ve got a thick headful of fuzzy chemo hair?
I woke up yesterday in a mood—one of those sassy, I feel totally kick-ass kind of moods. I put on my red skinny jeans, Elvis cutoff t-shirt, and a swanky little sweater. I made my eyes smoky black, and that’s when I decided to do it. I gelled up my hands, rubbed it in, and stuck all that kinky hair straight up on it sides.
It was a-w-e-s-o-m-e. I totally loved it.
Finally, I had a faux hawk. And a damn cute one at that.
Maybe it’s my anti-estrogen pills or maybe it was just a moment of relief at letting myself do something that I’ve thought about a million times—either way, I felt a surge of energy and emotion when I looked in the mirror.
It kind of seems silly. But what it represented for me is so big. It reminded me that I’m not just finding myself after cancer. I don’t want to have a pre-cancer and post-cancer identity. Cancer or no cancer, I’m still a woman, a person, a fellow dreamer, a voice, a home to another, a scaredy-cat (just sometimes), a creative.
And this cute, little faux hawk? It’s just one more beginning, one more notch, one more smile spreading across my face. It’s one more piece.