I woke up this morning and noticed a few strands of hair on my nightgown. I looked at my pillow, and it was covered with a fine, thin layer of brown hair. So it's beginning.
I'd felt a telltale sign yesterday when my scalp began tingling. I've heard that happens right before your hair starts to fall out. Still, today feels wierd. When I run my fingers through my hair, a couple dozen strands come out with them. Brushing pulls out a good clump, too.
"You're not losing your spirit — just your hair," Steve said this morning.
I haven't decided whether to cut it all off today or tomorrow or to let it keep falling out and see how long it takes to lose all of it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event, after all. (Hopefully.) Part of me is curious about what the process is like. The other part just wants to get it over with and start wearing my wigs. (Two more arrived in the mail last week from a friend in New Orleans — platinum white and seafoam green! He bought them at a shop where, apparently, all the best drag queens in the Big Easy get their wigs. Or something like that.)
I'm saving my hair in a gallon-sized Ziploc bag. I'd like to do something special and meaningful with it. Maybe give it a new home under some rocks on the North Shore. Or burn it and sprinkle the ashes somewhere. I don't know. (Any ideas?) In the meantime, though, I'm sure our new nanny thinks it looks awfully strange for me to be wandering around the house with a bag of hair in my hand!