Courage Found in Strands of Hair

Six years ago, my mother, who was fighting cancer and had lost her hair due to chemo, asked me to go wig shopping with her. The request surprised me. I want to say that I smiled and said, “I would love to,” but that would be a lie. I didn’t reply at first. My stomach twisted. I avoided making eye-contact with her. I didn’t want her to see how weak I really was. How afraid. I didn’t want to fail her. I wanted to go to a movie with her or take her to lunch. I wanted to do anything except spend time in a wig shop helping her choose new hair.

I said yes.

The shop had a limited amount of options, but my mother was determined to leave that store with hair. She was excited to lose the scarves, baseball caps, and bandannas that had become wardrobe staples. Having spent most of her life as a brunette and having gone gray years before, I was surprised when she insisted on only looking at the blond wigs. I asked her why and she said, “I’ve always wondered if blonds really do have more fun.”

Another gift she gave me: relentless curiosity.

Not a physically affectionate woman, getting my hair brushed was the only physical contact I can recall my mother and I having when I was a child. She would not tolerate tangled or disheveled hair. Her girls were put together, presentable, and that started with the hair. I have a tender head and a lot of hair. I would cringe in the morning and bedtime when the hairbrush came out. I can still hear the bristles zipping through my long hair and my mother telling me to sit still. As she tried on different wigs, I helped her straighten them so they would sit properly on her hairless scalp. “Hold still,” I told her as we laughed.

While the wig my mother chose was being properly fitted, I went into the restroom and cried. I felt helpless and sad. Fear was with me every…

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