I’m losing a lot of hair. I mean, a lot. Way more than seasonal. The last couple weeks, when I brush my hair, there’s enough to over-fill my hand. Enough you can’t see the brush. During the day I can run my fingers through my hair and come out with handfuls. I find hair everywhere.
Our cat caught a dragonfly and stored it in the bathroom. It might have survived, there on the mat, if not for the hair wrapped around it. I tried for several minutes to unwind my hair from the dragonfly, feeling oddly teary.
So I did what anyone would do and went to the internet. Two things immediately came up.
Extreme hair loss several months after an emotional shock or trauma.
Health reasons such as something going on with the thyroid.
I decided to call the doctor and get my thyroid tested, because, after all, that first reason didn’t apply to me.
And then, one word. One punch to the gut. One breathless, all-encompassing weight on the heart.
Eight months ago a lot of people went through an emotional shock.
The world lost a world-class kayaker.
A community lost a member.
Parents lost a child.
A brother was lost.
A friend was lost.
Last week someone posted a video of Sam on Facebook. He was being interviewed prior to kayaking a river in Kyrgyzstan. He was serious and focused. But right before the camera moved on, he smiled that famous Sam grin. I watched the video in sadness, but that unexpected grin for those few seconds made it all raw again.
So I’m losing hair and now I’m mad at myself. What right does my body, my soul, have, to claim emotional trauma or loss that makes your hair fall out?
I wasn’t his mother.
I wasn’t his sibling.
They’re the ones who wear that soul-deep grief. They’re the ones whose hearts will never fully heal. I actually thought to myself, you don’t have the right to that kind of grief.
How messed up is that?
But I do have the right to grieve. I do have the right to mourn. I do have the right to sit here crying as I type these words.
I have the right to go completely fucking bald if that’s what my heart needs.
I’m going to make a doctor appointment just in case. Probably. Maybe.
But I’m willing to bet those tests will all come out fine.
Because I’m losing hair from loss.
Because eight months later, nothing has changed.
Because Sam is still gone.