So, here we go with week five of my treatment.
Just this week and next to go.
In some ways, it has flown by. In others, not so much.
One thing that has flown, however, is my hair. When I was first diagnosed, I was told that I probably wouldn’t lose it all – perhaps just a bit at the back where the super whizzo magic beams pierce my supple, alabaster flesh in search of cancer orcs to battle (I’m pretty sure that’s scientifically correct).
And, that’s more or less exactly what has happened. Here’s the hair as it was this morning…
But, if you look closer at the back and sides…
Unless I wanted to look like an extra from the first series of The Black Adder, something had to be done.
And that something was this…
My sister, Sue, in addition to running me to hospital and back today, brought her clippers along and shaved it (almost) all off. I still have a fine fuzz there to keep the shine off.
It’s certainly a new look for me.
I quite like it.
But now I look like I’ve got cancer.
Either that or I’m just not wearing my Doc Martens, Union Jack t-shirt and braces, or walking my badly trained pit bull (who is probably called something like Killer or Mauler or Bastard or, I dunno… Simon).
When 9yo Sam got home from school, he spent a good ten minutes just rubbing my head. Then he said I look like I’m 70 years old, and went upstairs to fire up his Playstation.