Hair. Oh Hair. My Dear Hair.

Hair.
Hair.
I wish you were there.
Long tresses flowing from my head.
Healthy and strong, reaching down my back. . .
Hair.
Oh hair...
I wish you were there.

There is not much of a feeling that can compare to getting ready for work, looking in the mirror, brushing your hair and realizing something is wrong.

Was it just me? Or was my hair thinning? Thin in places.

Maybe it happened, or began happening when I was sick. I had dropped over a hundred pounds in three months time. My mother burst into tears when I was in the hospital, when I took my shirt off, because she could see the bones of my back pressed tight against my skin. I'd not only lost a lot of fat - I'm a big girl, and I can't be mad about that - but I'd lost much protein and muscle. Could hardly stand, let along walk. Hair was there, on my head, but it was thin and brittle.

Lupus is such a bitch. I swear.

Standing there, peering in the mirror, thinking about all of this, it still bothered me that my hair seemed to be thinning. Coming out more and more in the brush.

I needed to mention this on my next doctor appointment. I was going every two weeks, you see. I was doing great, been a couple of months since I got out the hospital. I had even gotten strong enough to walk again AND go back to work.

But moving slow...

And pulling that brush through my hair even slower...

Hair.
Hair.
I wish you were there.
A mighty puff atop my head.
An afro big as the moon or the sun.
Full of shiny twists, plentiful and too many to count.
Neat bantu knots, have you mistaking me for an African Queen.
Hair
Oh hair...
Dear hair, I wish you were there.


The next trip to the doctor I made sure to write the words down, on a post-it note, not the small ones, but the next biggest size, the square ones. It was big enough to write the six words, in small neat print. It was enough to write just what I needed to remember and say:

Ask what is wrong with my hair.

I hate doctor's visits. My doctor is one of the best immunologists in the Southeast. I thank God for her. Folk fly in on big airplanes from other states to see her. Still trying to figure out how I landed in her office.

Her husband is my critical care specialist (yeah, I got it like that)... I was seeing him that day. I peered down at my neatly creased post-it note at the reminder.

"Dr. B.?" I asked, my voice low, yet bouncing off the walls of the sterile room.
"Yes?" he answered, as he looked up from the prescription he was writing for me.
"My hair," I said. I reached up, held a few strands between my fingers, as if to test that it was still there. "My hair, it is falling out, it is thinning or something. I don't understand."
He sighed. "Well, that is a symptom of some lupus sufferers. Some hair loss. Or maybe all. Must be true of you."

I stared at him. His accent is thick, steeped in Indian heritage. I heard his words, but I didn't quite understand.

He gave me the same look he gave me when he first diagnosed me, spoke first spoke the words, "Looks like you have lupus." I understood him all too well, when I quickly asked in a voice calm as the sea "Is it fatal?'"

My words didn't come as quick that day, a few months later, when he said that I may experience hair loss. I was silent. My only response, a head nod.

Because let's admit it. I'd been laid out in a hospital bed not long before that severely dehydrated, organ systems failing... other's people blood dripping in my arm through long plastic lines.

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

And months later, sitting in a doctor's office, asking what was happening with my hair.

Yeah, it bothered me. Up until he told me what was going on.

Hair falling out.
Hair shedding.

Somehow... after all I'd been through.
Let's just say it was important.
But just not that important.

My prayer was only to be able to fully function. To be able to take care of myself without depending on others. For complete healing in my body. For the help of the Holy Spirit in the midst of it all.

What's a little hair loss?

I am a woman. A tomboy, no less. But a warm-blooded female, with all the hopes, desires, dreams, loves, wants and needs of any other woman.

I am a woman, and I am vain like any other woman.

Our hair is like a crown on our heads. People look upon it and oooh and awe. It is a thing of admiration.

But I, your friendly neighborhood Oldgirl, have lost most of my hair, my crown of joy. It grows, but not like a weed, but like something much slower. It dances to the beat of it's own drummer. If my meds are too strong it turns to good baby hair. If the meds are a little different, male pattern baldness occurs. If there are no meds at all... well, hair just is what it is.

Hair.
Hair.
I wish you were there.
Long tresses flowing from my head.
Bone straight, reaching down my back.
Afro big as moon... No! Big as the sun!
Full of bantu knots or plentiful with twists.
Hair.
Hair.
Oh Hair.
My dear Hair.
I wish you were there.

But you're not.
And that's okay.
For I live to see a new day.
The blood is running fresh and warm through my veins.
I breathe deep into my lungs fresh air manufactured by the Lord above...
especially for me, just for me...
Your Friendly Neighborhood Oldgirl, that Original Oldgirl, LadyLee.

Hair, I wish you were there.
But you're not.
in the midst of it all,
And as I mourn for you
I can close my eyes
And give thanks
For the memory of you
And for precious life itself.
And the joy of living to see a new day.

60 minute personal writing prompt of "Hair"... with no editing or corrections. Not even going back to read it.

Imagine that :)