My daughters are amazing creatures, quite ready to rise to any challenge, and far, far braver than I. They have all bungee-jumped, which I think has to be the most absurd invention ever, two off a bridge into a ravine in Costa Rica and one off a crane in Russia. Nuts, all three of them. Two of them have jumped out of a plane. If you're on a hike in the mountains and happen to pass a vertical rock face, they'll all be half way up like a bunch of monkeys before you realize they're no longer on the path with you. They've traveled to distant lands on shoestring budgets, and made it back safely. No fear!
So when I suggested they practice the simple - and safe - art of hair cutting on me, I was surprised when they didn't jump at the chance to give me an interesting hairdo. "Are you sure?" "Suppose I mess up?" "Where do I start". I pointed out that it didn't matter how awful it looked since it was all getting buzzed off soon. I did put my foot down at the suggestion of a mohawk, however.
You don't always lose your hair with chemo but with the sort of drugs I'm getting, mine will be leaving me after the second treatment. Apparently, it starts to thin out and then one day you wake up and it's all on your pillow! So in order to circumvent a grieving process over my hair, the best solution seemed to be to take action ahead of time.
We set up a salon in the kitchen and Francesca went first, shaping the mess my hair had grown into. Dimity had a go next, and gave me a really nice cut which I'll keep for a week. It was lovely having the girls working together to figure out how to create lines and make it even.
So, even though the circumstances in which I let them near my head with a pair of scissors was a little unusual, I'm looking at it as another of life's lessons I've passed onto my girls!
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