Looking at the mirror I watched as my stylist slowly snipped away at my hair. I had sat in that same chair many times over the years, usually before job interviews or Christmas or to get a sense of ooh-la-la before going on holiday. Over the years I always left with a feeling of happiness as I walked out of the salon with my new “do”. I have shared moments of happiness with my hairdresser and learned a lot about how Slovakians celebrate Christmas.
We’ve talked about me being unlucky in love and speculated how I might have known her before I knew her, as she used to be one of the women who would crowdsurf off the bar at the nearby O’Neill’s 20 years ago. And, obviously, this being the UK we’ve had a lot of chats about the weather and holidays.
But this time was different. Instead of leaving happy and proud to show off my new “do” I left with a shorter cut than I’d ever had before and with no doubt that I had cancer.
Having the disease used to be something I could forget every other week when I wasn’t in hospital being weighed, having blood tests, being asked about diarrhoea by my medical team, and then being attached to a chemo drip for hours on end while eating Mini Cheddars.
But now there is a permanent reminder every time I look in the mirror before leaving my flat. The shorter hair reminds me that every step I take is one more towards my grave.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. When I was first diagnosed with incurable bowel cancer two summers ago I was told I wouldn’t lose my hair. The consultant was right in a way because I haven’t lost all of it. But over the months my pride and joy was replaced by a curly sheep-like barnet which gradually thinned out until it looked absolutely ridiculous.
When I say ridiculous I mean I had big long hair at the sides and a patch of almost nothing running as a thick line in the middle of my head.
I mentioned it to a consultant during a recent appointment and he failed to recognise how distressing it was for me to be gradually losing my identity.
He was either s*** at reading people’s body language or had absolutely no mental health skills at all because he simply said that going bald is what happens to people in their 40s.
That might be the case in his family, as he was already falling victim to a massively receding hairline in his 30s, but it’s unheard of in mine. We take our hair to the grave.
And I had the grave in mind when I told my stylist to make my hair look as normal as possible. It does look a lot better than it did before, when it had the weird patchy bit. But now it serves as a constant reminder of my journey towards death.
My hair would supposedly grow back if I stopped chemotherapy. But, because my cancer is incurable, the only time it will be stopped is if my treatment stops working and tumours ravage my body or if the NHS runs out of money to pay for my drugs.
I’m not one of the lucky ones who will get to hear the words that the cancer has gone, or in medical-speak that there is “no evidence of disease”.
But I am lucky enough to be leading the Daily Express’s Cancer Care campaign, which is calling for all cancer patients to get mental health support both during and after treatment.
This will include medical teams being able to refer their patients to specialists if needed so they can be helped with all their feelings about cancer, including losing their hair, and other issues they are facing.
And, judging by my recent encounter with the consultant when he didn’t appreciate how a cancer patient would be feeling about hair loss, there must also be training for medical teams so they are more aware of mental health issues.
Please help us in our crusade by signing the petition so we can ensure the Government and the NHS listens and ensures there is mental health support for cancer patients.
