Truth in Samson’s Tale

There may be truth in Samson’s tale. More about that later.

I’ve always been grateful for a thick head of hair. Well, perhaps not during adolescence, when I

was critical of everything about myself. I’ve considered it a gift from my Venezuelan mother, the

beautiful Carlota.

Initially raven black and straight, it was happy in long braids, or in a ponytail, until tortures of

rollers came along and it became the pageboy with bangs I sported most of my life. Annoyed by

the reality of grey hair, I colored it, an albatross to maintain.

My first breast cancer was in 2001, very small, very scary. I didn’t require radiation or

chemotherapy, so imagine my surprise when my hair was suddenly curly. Of course, I usually

straightened it into its accustomed style.

My second bout with breast cancer was eight years later. both breasts, invasive, more serious.

Miraculously, my oncologist did not recommend chemo or radiation. I wore my hair curly then,

finally acknowledging its changed nature.

I had dodged a bullet twice, until last spring, eight years later, when I was diagnosed with round

three of cancer—a lymphoma under my right eye. The prognosis was good, but recovery would

require the trifecta of treatment: surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. My hair’s days were

numbered. My oncologist predicted when loss would begin with uncanny accuracy, forcing me

to abandon my hope that I would be different when it began to appear in clumps on my

hairbrush.

Miko, a delightful stylist, gave me my first buzz cut, as Donovan recorded the event. I was

delighted to learn I have a well-shaped head, a surprise, since I had never seen it without hair. An

even bigger surprise was the sense of freedom I felt. I had bought a wig in preparation for the

shearing, and to this day, six months later, I have not used it.

It’s growing back now, a silver pelt with a mind of its own. Strength is returning with the hair,

I’m grateful to find. Should I have heeded Samson’s warning? I didn’t really have a choice, but

I’m more fortunate than he, having survived.

I joke that I have free-range hair, that I’ve never been a silver fox before. Laurie says that’s a guy thing —that I’m a silver goddess.

I’m told I’m at the height of fashion, probably for the first time. I’ll need to consider products to tame it soon,

possibly even a trim. Everything changes. The only constant.

Samson, betrayed

lost his locks, source

of his Herculean strength

I did it willingly

as handfuls came off

during chemotherapy

shaving the rest

claiming control

I should have heeded

Samson’s warning

strength and energy

departed with my hair

more fortunate than he

my hair grows once again

painstakingly slow to return

a pelt of sorts

with a mind of its own

as I, not

coincidentally,

grow stronger.

- Selma Mann