My hair has died. It seems to be a relatively common thing with grief. You might have heard about going grey overnight. While a quick google search can’t offer me definite proof whether that’s medically possible or not, it is most certainly true that people can experience hair loss or change in quality after a sudden shock.
So wait, you’re telling me that Charmed isn’t accurate? (source)
I’ve always had naturally fabulous hair. It was curly when I was a little girl, with kiss curls at the back of my neck. I remember my grandmother brushing my hair for me. She’d part it down the middle and work on one side at a time. Once she was finished the left side and it was silky and smooth, she’d call it the ‘princess side’. Then she’d start on the still-tangled ‘witch side’. My mother used to braid my hair in the evenings after my bath. She wasn’t really a perfectionist, but she would get frustrated if she braided one side significantly lower than the other. I loved it when she’d unravel it and start it over as I had another block of time enjoying the feeling of someone playing with my hair.
Yes this is me at four years old and totally not 1930-40s Hollywood actress Myrna Loy. (source)
My hair went relatively straight through primary school and much of high school. When I was about fifteen, I cut my hair really short: it was about eye level at the front and shaved in at the back. It sounds terrible, but it was one of the best cuts I’ve ever had. I was amazed at how curly it went. I’m sure it was more likely that it coincided with puberty (and therefore a change in hormones) than a magical haircut. But I was rather thrilled with my new curls. It’s remained wavy ever since. Even at the longest I’ve ever had it.
About this long. Probably. (source)
It has this lovely wave that shapes my face. People often ask me how I style it or what product I use. But honestly, I just wash it and it dries like this:
This is also completely me and not Kate Winslet. (source)
And then my brother died. And my hair with him. It hasn’t been falling out at all. In fact, to look at me you can’t even tell. I’ve told close friends about the change in my hair and they genuinely don’t believe me. But underneath, it’s all coarse and spindly like hair that’s been badly bleached. And the shape of it is kinked and frizzy like grey hair.
Something like this, but the whole of my hair. (source)
It’s so kinked in fact that it’s statically charged and attracts lint from everything I wear. It takes me over an hour to brush it out each evening. Knots form around the bits of lint so badly that I have to cut them out. I’m not talking about the ‘knots’ that tangled hair get. I mean proper knots. The kind that earn you badges in girl scouts. You know how you can tie a knot in a single strand of something? Like string? I get that kind a lot. It is impossible to undo a knot in a single strand of hair.
Apparently the sebaceous gland shuts down and stops delivering all those precious oils to the hair. Which produces a similar effect to over-shampooed hair. The hair gets dry and coarse. The scalp suffers. Everything goes horribly wrong. This leads to Seborrhoeic Dermatitis which, judging by my symptoms, I most definitely have. Hilariously fun things like acne along the hairline, dry scalp, general all-purpose pimples on the face and shoulders … oh yeah, and hair loss!
It is completely treatable. The main thing is time. As for the hair, you can try every treatment, leave-in conditioner and serum therapy under the sun but none of it will help. It all comes down to time. I’ll need to cut a good slab of my hair off to take the weight off the roots. And then just wait it out until sebum and vitamin E production start up again and things naturally return to normal.
“Hmm. Actually, can you cut it a bit longer?” (source)
In the meantime, I keep returning to ‘Little Women’. The 1994 film in particular. In one scene in particular, they’ve just had news that their father has been wounded in the war and their mother needs to get to the hospital in a hurry. They don’t have enough money for train fare, so Jo sells her hair for some cash.
Meh. I’ve gone shorter. (source)
I just love this unsupportive reaction from her youngest sister, Amy. “Jo, how could you?” she cries. “Your one beauty!” As though that’s all there is to her. Not just a pretty face, indeed. And yet I really relate to this at the moment. I’ve been testing the water by telling people I’m thinking of cutting my hair. And I’m met with this “your one beauty” reaction. I’ve had to dig out old photos of me just prove it’s suited me in the past. And I resent having to explain to people why I need to cut my hair. I should be able to get away with just wanting to cut it on a whim, surely? Part of me thinks, “it’s just hair for goodness sakes!” And yet, I can’t help but feel cheated. Isn’t it enough that my brother’s died? Does my hair have to suffer too? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t also for the PTSD, memory disturbance, depression, anxiety, insomnia, ALL THE THINGS!
One of my favourite scenes in this film is where Beth awakes in the night to hear Jo crying:
It may seem petty that of all things, it’s my hair that’s getting me down. Sometimes I have almost this exact conversation with my partner. He’ll say, “Are you sad about your brother?” and I look up through the tears to wail, “My hair…” It’s distressing that your body just falls apart with grief. Dealing with the mental and emotional fallout is hard enough. But having your body disintegrate on you is a constant reminder of how messed up things are. And I hardly need a constant reminder. His permanent absence from our lives is the constant reminder.
[Little Women spoilers ahead. I can’t imagine this being a problem for anyone. If it is, come over. I have three different film versions and all four books. I’ll make you tea. And scones. Or just come over anyway.]
How does Jo cope when Beth dies? I think she cries twice and then writes a book. Hardly realistic. So I guess we have three things in common: crap hair, dead siblings and writing. Maybe there’s a book in me yet.
(source)
napkinpoet 