The Day I Shaved My Head

Ask any of my family, and they’ll tell you I’m a fighter. Ask my friends, and they’ll say I’m fiesty. Now if you ask my teachers, they’ll frown and say I’m disruptive. (I’ll not deny that charge.)

Everyone has defensive mechanisms, and I guess mine is trying to take my problems by the throat, give them a good shake, and hoping they learn their lesson, not to mess with me. All my life, facing them head-on worked for me. Where others spent hours carefully planning on how to avoid or skirt a particular issue, I was fighting my way through it.

Brave, rash, bold, nusance, headstrong, courageous. . . These were all words that were used to describe me.

But. There’s always a but somewhere, and mine was pretty big. I got sick, really sick. There were no more class debates, no arguing about which method of solving a math problem was better, no putting the bullies in their places. I bet the teachers were thrilled.

Day after day of hellish doctor’s visits, pill after pill of medication, constant agony. . . I could feel my life draining away, and there was nothing anyone could do. Not even me--fighting was pointless.

Days became weeks, weeks became months. . . My mom took me out of school and started homeschooling me because I was too weak. (Once again, I bet the teachers were thrilled.) I think she was also afraid that people would start bullying me or say stuff, but that didn't really bother me. Only a few kids had made some sideways comments about my slowly balding head, as I had them too scared to say anything to my face. I'd be lying if I said their words didn't hurt just a little. I'd been brave enough to audition for the school play--even though I didn't go there anymore--but I hadn't been brave enough to follow it through. Appearing on stage, with bald spots, no wig, no hat . . . Mr. Riverts was a firm believer in being yourself and not changing or hiding who you were because of somebody else.

School is bad, but school alone is even worse. I was so lonely, and that only added to my feeling of defeat. My friends visited, of course, but they had schoolwork and jobs and sports. Mr. Riverts called at least once a week, just to check up on me and try to coax me to be in the play. I said no. Many times.

March 27th. I remember that day vividly, every event, every detail. I was laying in my bed, as usual, staring at the ceiling. Asking the same questions again and again, Why me? What did I do?

What’s is wrong with me?! Why am I still in stupid bed? Why am I hiding?

You’re dying! You deserve some self-pity! the other part of me argued.

That’s a load of horse apples (because my mother raised me right and I don’t use profanity, so that was as bad as it got without getting in trouble.)

I was angry, like usual, but not at my sickness, my mother, my parents, or life in general. No, this time, I was mad at myself. This wasn’t me; I was a fighter.

I got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom on legs that wouldn’t quite work properly and stared at myself in the mirror--I was skinny now, with pale skin and thinning hair. I tried to arrange it a little bit so some of the bald spots were covered, but a clump of golden red hair fell out in my hands.

I studied it for several moments before riffling through my mom’s drawers until I found what I was looking for.

With grim determination, I switched the razor on. Its humming was strangely soothing as it hovered just above my scalp. But only for a moment.

I would have closed my eyes, but I didn’t want to cut myself. And besides, I was going to be brave, even as the chunks of once thick, wavy hair fell into the sink.

“Take that, cancer,” I whispered. “If I go bald, it’ll be my choice.”

When I was done, I ran my hands over my prickly head. Tears, unwanted, trickled down my face, falling to the carpet of my hair. I leaned down, scooping up a lock of shimmering hair from the floor. Rubbing it against my cheek for a moment, I composed myself.

I’m not going down without a fight.

I ran out of the bathroom--the first time I’d run in a while--and down the stairs. My two siblings were at school, my father at work, and my mother in the other bathroom, taking a shower.

Good. There was something that I needed to do first before talking to them. My hand hovered over the phone, a thousand different scenarios running through my head. But they didn't control me--I controlled them.

I dialed Mr. Riverts.

“Hey, Mr. Riverts, it’s me, Sophia. I was wondering if you still would let me play the lead role in the play?"

"Sophie! You've finally come around!" He paused. "You do understand that if you don't have your lines down in time, it goes to your understudy? She's been working very hard and it wouldn't be fair if . . ."

"Yes, of course!"

"And you know that none of you will be wearing wigs? If you want a hat then I suppose you could do that, I just want for you to be confident with . . ."

"Who I am, I know. It's fine, really. Practice after school?" I asked.

"Yes. See you then, Sophia."

I said goodbye and hung up, grinning.

I bet the teachers will be thrilled.