I had been told that prime time for the hair to depart was between ten and fourteen days after the first session of chemotherapy. As if on cue, on the twelfth day, my hair began to fall out. At first it was just a few more strands than normal came out, as I ran my fingers through instead of brushing it. I had read that the gentler you are, the longer it stays put. I put these strands in a box, fascinated by how the hair just came away from my head without any pulling, like it was already detached. Throughout that day and the next, the amount that came out increased greatly. I was amazed how much had come out, yet still made no apparent difference to how I looked.

It wasn’t long before I started leaving hair behind – on my clothes and coats; on the bed sheets and pillows; on the back of the sofa when I stood up; and in the car. This was immensely distressing and I soon became very conscious of it everywhere I went. I was particularly mortified at a friend’s house when I got up to go, and had left a good handful on the back of her armchair. Obviously she didn’t mind, but as I hastily picked it all up and placed in the outside bin, I knew I couldn’t carry on like this for much longer. I was thoroughly fed up with the mess my hair was making, but I still cried all the way home about losing it.

I remember later that day, driving the girls home from school with the car window open so that I could have a good moult, and throw out whole handfuls without making a mess in the car. It was going great, until I realised Sophie had noticed what I was doing and started getting upset.

“Mummy has your hair started coming out? Don’t pull it out! Stop it! Why are you pulling it out?” she cried.

“I’m sorry sweetheart; I’m not pulling, it’s falling out - but it just makes such a mess and rather than throw it away, I thought maybe the birds might be able to make their nests a bit cosier with it. What do you think?”

It took a few moments to digest, but this seemed to calm her worries a bit. Mainly I think because I had acknowledged what was happening, but wasn’t getting upset about it. However, the next day I called a local hairdresser, explained the situation, and asked if they could squeeze me in for a quick cut. Normally I wouldn’t have had a hope of getting in at such short notice, but I was very grateful that the kind manageress said she would see me straightaway in the circumstances.

She was as sensitive and gentle as anyone could hope for and didn’t charge me their full rate either. The upside of this was that the short cropped look really suited me! It wasn’t a cut that I would ever have dared to do normally. For two whole days, I looked (and felt) fabulous. A friend commented on how the short crop complemented my elfin features! What a great (if visually challenged) friend and what a wonderful, albeit temporary, consolation after the distress.

It’s fair to say that when the hair is shorter, it falls out a little slower as there is less weight and less friction I suppose to catch it – but by this stage, I think it is better to give in gracefully, and admit it’s time to shave it off. I was never going to be one of those people who shaves it all off before it starts to fall out, and make a party out of it, invite the neighbours in, or have my kids playing ‘catch Mummy’s hair’ over a bowl.

The morning after the second night of looking fabulous, I woke up to a pillow covered in millions of very short strands of hair. They were so short and so prolific that they were impossible to pick up by hand. I was devastated, and although I’d known it was coming, it was still a horribly shocking discovery. The pillow displayed a veritable carpet of shining, honey blondeness. I got the vacuum cleaner out, hoping to clean it up quickly before Richard saw, but my lovely other half would not let me do it – I argued, feeling mortified, but he insisted and hoovered up every last strand from the pillow and bed sheets, and then the floor. As he did this, I wondered how this would affect us, and I think it was then that it finally dawned on me: he had really meant it when he’d said that he loved me more than anything in the world, and nothing – no matter what – would change the way he felt about me.

I went straight back to Tim, who fitted me in at a few hour’s notice, and gave him the bag containing my new hair. This time we stayed downstairs, but he showed me to a chair in the back room of the salon – I guess it was the ‘barbers’ section. This had a partitioning door and after he had spoken a few hushed words to one of the other stylists, he closed it.

“Let’s get on with it then, shall we?” Tim said as he reached for a pair of scissors. I smiled weakly at him as he cut off a lock of hair. I was puzzled as he put it to one side and then put the scissors down. I assumed he must have decided it was short enough to just go with the electric trimmer.

What a different feeling it was to sit in the salon chair, under these circumstances, and have the apron tied around your neck. Usually it feels like a treat; today it felt like an undeserved punishment. Do all cancer sufferers at some point think ‘what on earth have I done so very wrong, to deserve all this?’ I know I did; on more than this occasion. It feels so downright selfish to have any self-pitying thoughts, but I did just then. I sat there, staring into the mirror, as Tim silently guided the buzzing clippers over every inch of my head; I felt very sorry for myself indeed.

Unfortunately, that self-pity started a flood of hot tears coursing down my cheeks and onto the black nylon apron. Tim continued to trim, in his sensitive and dignified silence and so my hair continued to slide away, flopping onto the laminate floor. The things you have to go through in your fight against cancer can seem particularly harsh, especially when you don’t actually feel ill! Tender after surgery perhaps, tired after chemotherapy or radiotherapy, but not once throughout it all, did I feel seriously ill or that there was anything physically wrong with me.

It had taken about four minutes. Here I was, now velvet-headed, but in a way relieved that the decision had been made, and action taken. Tim broke the silent spell.

“Now for the good part!” he beamed, and out flounced Stevie from her black, shiny cardboard box. He expertly fitted my new hair, adjusting the elastic as he went so it felt very secure. Then he swept the floor and opened the connecting door, as I gazed at the new look ‘me’. Was I going to get away with this? I wondered. I loved the hair – it felt so soft and shiny and looked so real. I was amazed and delighted. The thought even crossed my mind that if and when I got through all of this, I would keep it to wear on nights out, it looked so good!

“Now, let’s see if we can cut your fringe and trim the edges a bit, so it frames your face better”, he said. He began to do my hair like I had just walked in, trimming the fringe and feathering the edges with a pair of razor scissors. He also layered the sides a little so that they fell softer around my face. What a professional; and what a patient, decent man.

I paid for the haircut and bought some wig shampoo and conditioner, a polystyrene head to ‘store’ it on, and a special hairbrush that wouldn’t create static. Tim told me how to take care of my new hair, and warned that when wearing it, I really shouldn’t stand too close to a hot oven when the door was opened, and as it was almost the start of November, not to stand too close to any bonfires! As I thanked him profusely, he handed me a small, round, silver cardboard box. I opened the lid to find that first curl of my hair. What a touching gesture. I still have that box: it's the ultimate, instant antidote to bad hair days.

I left the salon and walked across the road to my car. There were a few people on the street and a couple crossing the road – I looked at them, scanning their faces for any sign of a reaction. They, of course, completely ignored me. Phew.

It was time for my first real literal ‘outing’; to pick up the girls from school. Due to my hair appointment, they had stayed at the school tea club, so it wouldn’t be busy. As I drove to school, I kept catching sight of myself in the mirror and it was very strange to suddenly have lots of long hair swishing around. I liked it!

I was incredibly nervous and self-conscious as I got out of the car at school, and by the time I reached the classroom where my daughters were playing, I was shaking like a leaf. I walked in and my three lovely girls - who I knew would not hold back their thoughts on how I really looked - ran over to me and exclaimed their delight at my hair. What an immense relief! I signed them out, and the teacher in charge smiled broadly at me.

Why was I still shaking? What was the worst thing that could happen? They all knew why my hair had grown a couple of feet since that morning, so it was unlikely they would stare at me. It was my choice to go for something drastic, and once everyone from school had seen me like this, I would undoubtedly feel more comfortable.

I decided there and then that the best thing to do would be to see lots of people at once, and there was a school event coming up! What could be better than the annual fireworks display at school for ‘coming out’ at? It would be dark, and the kids would be more interested in looking at the fireworks than my wig. As long as I remembered not to get too close to the bonfire. Never mind COME out – if I got too bloody close, they’d have to PUT me out!

I was pleased that my children were accepting of my new look straightaway, and it was a major relief to me when Sophie asked me to go down to her classroom the following morning - to show her friends how young her Mummy now looked! Before my treatment began, I had ordered some headscarves and head covers online. The latter were made of cosy, soft cotton and they had long ends that could be tied neatly behind your head. These were ideal for sleeping in, and for around the house when I was alone. Their only drawback was that they made you look like a cancer patient!

I never let anyone see me without my hair or one of these scarves or covers; especially not my children. I’ve no doubt they would have been OK with it, but I could not bring myself to face seeing their reaction just in case it betrayed the slightest horror, or worse, revulsion. If they had ever asked to see, I might have shown them briefly, but they never did and I think that proved I had made the right choice.

I was anxious about Richard’s reaction – to the hair and how I looked in scarves, and also about the day in the future when he would see my naked chest. For now, I kept a vest top on, but I couldn’t hide my head! I don’t believe anyone in his position would say they didn’t like the way I looked, but certain physical responses cannot be faked!! In that respect, it was quite obvious he found my new look attractive and he admitted it had been very erotic – he loved me and loved long hair. However, when it came to ‘lights out’ time for bed that first night, I couldn’t bring myself to take it off and put a scarf or head cover on. I am ashamed to say that I slept in the wig that night!
I did feel like an idiot – it was very uncomfortable, very sweaty and hot, and it didn’t do the hair any good. I didn’t sleep well because I was scared the damned thing would slip around during the night and he would have woken up next to ‘Cousin It’ from the Addams Family! It wasn’t vanity – I knew the scarf would be ok, and I knew that he would love me whatever I looked like; I think it was more of a denial and maybe a little protest about what was happening to me - and at that moment in time, I just couldn’t let down any more defences.

In the interests of balance, after the horror of the above night, I will let you into a secret. One of the most pleasurable feelings in the world was discovered during this first week without hair! It’s probably not what you think though! Standing in the shower with hot water cascading down on your head, soaping and scrubbing your fuzzy scalp – oh my, it was absolutely blissful! It made me cry out with pleasure it was so spine-tingling - almost orgasmic! It was a truly gorgeous and welcome discovery amongst this nightmare.

Three weeks on from the first treatment - and I had by now bitten the bullet, and appeared in front of my girls and Richard in scarves and head covers. My wound had settled down, though I still looked like I had been mauled by a tiger and was still totally numb.

I was finding more inventive ways to fill my left bra cup, with extra cotton wool in the softie and the padded cups cut from now redundant old bras. I found those circular cotton wool pads usually used for make-up or nail varnish removal useful; plus a few tiny safety pins to hold things together. I could’ve done a Blue Peter demonstration with my new-found bosom crafting skills, though I never thought of using sticky-backed plastic. I had definitely hit upon a brand new crafting niche market: I would call it ‘Décolletage Decoupage’!

Despite raging mouth ulcers, I finally got my sense of taste back and was beginning to enjoy food again. That meant only one thing. It was time to go back to Team Toxic for round two. This time was very much like the first, except all the nurses that I had met last time complimented me on my hair, and I had my first cannula nightmare.

Debbie was busy when I first arrived for the cannula before heading off on my ‘grateful it’s not in these body-parts’ stroll to the oncology clinic. In her absence, another nurse tried three times unsuccessfully and it was excruciatingly painful. When she pushed the tube in for the fourth time, my hand had started swelling up and turning a nasty shade of purple. She said the needle was in a vein that time, but it didn’t feel right to me. When I mentioned it, she sighed and fetched a syringe of something she said would ‘flush it’ through; saline I guessed. The pain I felt when she did this was shocking. She was flushing it through so quickly it felt like knives slicing up my arm. I knew it wasn’t right but could tell she really didn’t want to try again with another vein.

I left to go to the oncology department, but when I returned, I asked for Debbie and quietly explained what had happened. It’s very scary doing this because you might have the same nurse next time, and you fear they might be cross with you next time for complaining about anything. Luckily for me Debbie was there, and changed it without question or further pain. She even said she would be there at my next session and she would offer to do my cannula.

I later discovered it can be dangerous to have chemotherapy drugs leaking into your arm if the cannula isn’t in the right position. This incident, coupled with two dosage mistakes on my steroids prescription, (spotted and rectified immediately by another nurse – I wouldn’t have known); ensured that I took a great deal more notice of all the medical side of the treatment and if I suspected something wasn’t right, I asked different people until I was satisfied.

This week, like the last one, was standing-room only around the coffee table, with several of the patients having two or three ‘guests’ each. The conservatory was empty again, so I decided I would sit in there this time. As I passed by the armchairs around the periphery of the room, I noticed a woman in great distress waiting for the nurse to come and deal with her drip machine, which was bleeping to have the bag changed.

I stopped by her chair, and asked if she was OK. She said that she had arranged to sit with a patient she had chatted to during her previous session, and had looked forward to seeing her again as it was such a relief to chat to someone in the same boat. Her new friend was sitting in the middle, but there weren’t enough long socket cables to plug her own drip into, and no chairs spare for her. She was too scared to ask the nurses, so I did. The nurse I asked was an angel: she didn’t mind at all and obviously knew how much this kind act in a busy shift means to patients.

While she went to get a spare cable, and chair, I asked the woman how many times she had been here so far. I felt like a prisoner asking another prisoner what they were ‘in’ for. I wished I hadn’t. This was her last session – hence the distress at not sitting with her friend - but she was not positive and forward-looking. She explained that she had been here two years ago; but the cancer had now returned.
Once the lady was sitting next to her friend in animated conversation, with a fresh bag of whatever her poison was, I went to sit in the conservatory and waited for mine. This time I knew what strange sensations to expect and wasn’t as anxious. The nurse and I chatted about our lives; I told her about my children and she told me about her son who had recently married. There was no love lost between her and the new daughter-in-law, and the more she spoke, the more familiar it all sounded.

I quickly realised it could have been my ex-in-laws speaking. She was telling me how this girl just didn’t try hard enough to fit into their family, and that she made things awkward for them when they tried to help. I listened with great interest to this unexpected ‘other side of the story’; although I silently sympathised with the daughter-in-law naturally. I expect she was made to feel she wasn’t good enough for her husband either, poor thing. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt, cried the tears. It was great that the nurses didn’t mind talking about their own lives a bit – it really did help to talk about someone else for a while.

That night I decided to wash my ‘hair’. I wouldn’t have had a clue about this, but fortunately Tim had given me some tips that weren’t on the care label, like you should only wash it every couple of weeks. That was a real plus point, as was the fact that it was a great deal easier to wash and dry than real hair. I filled the basin with cool water, added a slug of the wig shampoo and dunked in the hair, swishing it around for a minute. Then it was rinsed – again in cool water, and this same procedure was repeated using the conditioner.

I lifted the wig out and gently laid it on a towel. I put another towel on top and squashed out the excess water, before hanging it up in the bathroom to dry overnight. The whole cleaning process took about three minutes, and it would’ve been a lot less but for mine being so long.

Can you imagine how much free time we would have if we spent only three minutes per fortnight on our hair?! I reckon the average woman spends at least thirty minutes a day doing her hair – twice that if she goes out in the evening too – but let’s be conservative and call it thirty minutes a day. That equates to three and a half hours per week or seven hours per fortnight. So if we all had wigs, we could save six hours and fifty-seven minutes per fortnight which is about seven and a half days per year! Bit drastic for an extra week of time, but it certainly makes you think... The best part though, is getting ready in the morning and only taking fifteen seconds to do your hair – there aren’t many positives to all of this, but that is a biggie!

The negatives aren’t hard to spot, but one of the main ones for me was the rancid taste of everything for two weeks after the treatment. It was a waste of time cooking anything for myself, or even going out for meals – it was all just foul. I had to force food down and try not to be sick – which is ironic really given all the anti-sickness medicine you get. This would count as one of the times in your life you could eat lots of nice things and not worry about the waistline – in fact eating a bit more might even help your recovery a bit – so it’s a diabolical shame that the taste is so foul because you cannot stomach anything at all.

Interestingly, when my mother had her chemotherapy fifteen years previously, her taste didn’t change and she didn’t get mouth ulcers. I hoped this would be the case with my final three sessions, which would be the Docetaxol. It was quite an eye-opener seeing at first-hand how the treatments had improved, and side-effects of the chemotherapy had been considerably mitigated since then.

My mother’s treatment for stage three ovarian cancer had also involved six cycles of chemotherapy, but they were all given to her as an inpatient. The sickness was violent and continuous. I remember the ward she was admitted to was full of people at various stages of disease, and after visiting her or the first time I insisted on staying the night; sleeping in the chair next to her bed. I could not bear to leave her alone with some of the patients as sick and delirious as I had encountered there. One woman in particular kept coming over and sitting on my mother’s bed, telling her that she didn’t want to be in here anymore. Another screamed through the night – begging the doctors to help her and howling loudly that she didn’t want to die – it was so horrendous, it gave me nightmares for weeks. Each time I stayed, without fail, the nurses came in and silently drew the curtains around all of the beds. A minute or so later, you could hear the double doors being propped open, and then the noise of a trolley being wheeled out. Then the curtains would be opened and there would be one less person on the ward, until someone new was admitted. It was horrific for the patients, even though the nurses did their best, with their limited facilities and equipment.

I remember visiting one Friday evening and as I emerged from the lift on the correct floor, there were signs up on the doors and walls showing arrows to the ‘Hen Night’. I was walking in the direction of these arrows and they led to my mum’s ward. The signs led to a side-room which was next to the nurses’ station, and its door was open. As I walked past, I glanced in and saw champagne glasses, cards, and lots of flowers. On what looked like a sailing boat in the middle of the room, laid a beautiful young lady with fiery red curly hair. (I learned later than the ‘boat’ was ironically a special kind of water bed – being trialled for comfort and treatment/prevention of bedsores – a common problem for the long-term sick.) I asked one of the nurses when the girl was to be married, and she said it was scheduled for the next morning in the hospital chapel.

As I had stayed over, I was there in the morning to see the ‘boat’ being wheeled out of the side-room, helped by a handsome young man in a smart suit, on its way to the chapel. The girl on the ‘boat’ had a white dress on and she had some flowers in her hair. Her face was somewhat emaciated, and she was stick-thin, but she was still a beautiful bride. The other patients on the ward shouted out their best wishes. My heart ached for them – surely they wouldn’t be tying the knot here unless it was urgent? I wondered how long they would have together as man and wife.

When I left the ward not long after, I looked into the empty room and saw presents and a small wedding cake on her locker. It was so bitter sweet. I thought about the couple a lot that day. When I returned in the early evening to pick Mum up and take her home after her treatment, the bridal suite was completely empty. There was a normal bed in there, freshly made, and the locker was clear. The nurse told me they had managed a few hours as Mr and Mrs, lying side by side.

I felt so sad for them, but I was very happy to be bringing Mum home. She was very sick indeed, very weak and practically bald, but she was still with us, still fighting and she was winning. The chemotherapy treatments were certainly harsher back then; I only hoped today’s chemotherapy would be as effective as hers had proved to be fifteen years ago. They had given her just a one-in-twenty chance of surviving, yet she is very much alive and well - thank God. Who says there is no cure for cancer?

Before I went back into the ring for round three – the final dose of FEC – I had my elder two daughters’ birthdays and parties to organise. This gave me a proper focus for the (so-called) rest period between treatments. First though, was Bonfire Night, my ‘coming out’ party. It was a Friday night, (the girls' usual sleep-at-Dad's night), which meant my girls travelled over with their Dad and I would meet them on the school field.

By the time of the bonfire I was more used to my new hair, and a few mums of children in my daughters’ classes had already seen me, so I knew not everyone at the bonfire would do a double-take or ignore me! I still felt quite nervous though, as I left my car and walked down to the field.

In previous years, I had helped out with the organisation and catering for this event. I hadn’t minded doing it but now it was rather nice to go to something at school and enjoy it with the girls, rather than working all evening. Having been Chairman of the school’s PTA for the two previous years, I had done more than my fair share of being stuck in the kitchen or bar all night, and selling the dreaded raffle tickets!

As I walked down to the school field, Jasmine spotted me and ran over to meet me. This sweet gesture enabled me to walk right into the crowd of people, all the while chatting with her about the fireworks, and smiling at people without having to say anything. Once there, I felt a bit safer, which was good because my littlest angel then ran off to find her friends again. I looked around, but couldn’t see my other two daughters. I spotted two couples that had become quite close B.D. (before divorce), but less so since then. Do they think divorce is contagious? Or was it the cancer? I smiled at one of them, but she quickly looked away. “Right then!” I told myself, “Time to circulate!”

I went over to a good friend of mine. Sarah was one of the few people that had visited me in the hospital, and her twin daughters had been Sophie’s best friends since they were four. It must be hard to know what to say when someone you know well, and see nearly every day at school, suddenly has such a drastic change in appearance – but Sarah was her usual friendly self and handled the situation brilliantly; she is one of those people you can truly rely on.

While I chatted to Sarah, a woman I hadn’t seen in over a year came over. I didn’t remember her name, but she had helped us with a couple of the uniform sales I had organised at school. Her daughter had left the school now, but she lived in the village so still came back for events like this.

“Great to see you Lisa! Wow! Love the extensions – they look really good; you really suit long hair!”

I opened my mouth to tell her the truth, but Sarah butted straight in, agreed with her, and then changed the subject. How fantastic! Up until that moment, I had always felt obliged to tell people what was going on – even if they weren’t friends – why on earth I did that, I don’t know! There was no reason to tell this woman it was a wig, and why I was wearing it; I probably wouldn’t even see her again. It was a new freedom of sorts.

I didn’t hang around long after the fireworks, though I did make sure lots of people saw me by helping out with the soup and drinks for a little while. Toni and her daughter were also helping out, and it meant a great deal to me when her lovely daughter, Sophia, who was only about fifteen at the time, spoke to me during a quieter moment and told me it looked ‘fab’. What a sweetie.

The girls’ birthdays went better than I had hoped for too. I managed to organise two small parties and sleepovers a week apart. I got pretty tired by the second one and went to bed very early, leaving them to their DS games, chocolate, loud music and eating their own weight in Jubblies – those triangular shaped ice pops. When I woke at midnight, I could still hear lots of giggling and shouting; they had just discovered Charlotte’s sleeping bag was super shiny, and made stair-surfing an even greater thrill.

I went to the loo, and then decided to venture downstairs to see if I could quieten things down a bit. They must have heard the toilet flush, and as I walked down the landing and descended the stairs everything went quiet. Too quiet. It was now silent – apart from a couple of whispered shushes! When I walked into the living room, I had to smile; they were all in their sleeping bags, eyes closed and all breathing far too heavily, despite the lights being on! They are all lovely young ladies – but rubbish actresses!

“Oh, I heard lots of noise and I need to sleep, so I wondered if you’d like to watch a movie? I bought Grease?” I asked quietly. Eight pairs of eyes opened immediately and they cheered as they leapt back out of their bags and went round to the sofa. I put on the DVD and disappeared gratefully upstairs. We’ve had lots of parties over the years, but Becky says the party that year went down in her class history as the best sleepover ever. Result!