here i harangue on hair

When I was in nursing school, I never ever thought I would work with cancer patients. It wasn't from any sort of dread, but the thought just was a nebulous almost-possibility that never touched my mind. I wouldn't have become a cancer nurse but for my very random presence at a job fair where a cancer hospital was presenting, at the time when I was on the verge of accepting a different position. I cannot say that I picked the better option, because I never experienced the other choice, but I am saying that I can see good in my current job.

As ironic as it is, even though most of the time I cannot remember my patients' names, I feel like I have a see-understand-respect-love moment when I go into their rooms. I got a realization the other day: hair does not matter. This is a big, cathartic understanding from a girl who used to pray that her hair wouldn't fall out [I was a tween, and under the impression that once a hair falls out, nothing replaces it, which freaked me out when I looked at my hairbrush]. These women are beautiful, and hair has nothing to do with it. I look at my patients and see the inherent "woman" instead of  other changeable, non-important classifications such as "blonde" "brunette" etc. Not that it doesn't bother them; those who lose their hair wear head wraps before accepting visitors. I had to stop myself the other day from saying "Let me get out of your hair." I changed it at the last second to "your room." Close call.

I am by no means a mover and shaker. I am not ready to stop arranging my hair, or (more drastic) to shave it off just to prove my point. Nor would I be thrilled to get a diagnosis of cancer. But if that day comes (which is a more plausible thing the older I get; in high school my friends used to joke that if we lived long enough, everybody would get cancer), and I lose my hair, perhaps, just perhaps, I will be able to say, "Ah, well. One less thing to worry about."