I’ve zhooshed my riah

That’s your actual polari for hair cut. Or getting your knob shaved. It’s been a big thing. When I was planning for surgery, I was booking a haircut beforehand, just to feel a little better about myself in hospital. I might look pale, scarred and bloodied, with tubes and drips and canulas, but at least my hair would be FABULOUS.

Hair. It’s such a strong part of identity. My neighbour was upset at losing his while undergoing chemotherapy. Understandably. And he’s not anywhere near as vain as me.

I’ve been a skinhead, been bright red, bright blond, highlighted, lowlighted,  had an 80s mullet, short back and sides, tied my hair with a band at the top so I looked like I had a fountain on my head. I’m even going grey. I mean, becoming a silver fox.

I’ve used clippers on my own hair, had stylists and an old fashioned barber with a cut throat razor. Some styles have looked great, some I now admit look awful.

Yesterday, I visited the Intensive Care Unit I was in 3 weeks ago. I was delivering chocolates as a thank you to the doctors and nurses (you have to give two lots – one for night staff, one for day staff – otherwise there’s war.) We joked about me obsessing about my hair while I was drugged up and vomiting before my operation.

This time, I was able to walk in to the ward, and I was able to walk out. As I walked out, after all the compliments on my progress, and all the thanks for the 2 weeks of hospital care, and the giving and receiving of chocolate, one of the nurses shouted after me


I’m feeling a little something like my old self.