HAIR!

Thirty-one years ago, on the squareball court at Roosevelt Elementary, Amy Baklund called me (the new kid at the school) "little girl," and shortly thereafter, became not my tormentor, but my closest friend. Over three-quarters of my life are comprised of memories of her: the summers we spent at Camp Don Bosco, the time I put her underpants in her flute case before school, the "classes" we conducted we conducted as teachers with a roomful of stuffed animals (little Ralphie the beat-up black and white teddy bear was especially badly behaved), the time she spilled her Bunsen Burner in 8^th grade science, the billion notes we wrote under our assumed identities, Wanda Teetlebound (Amy) and Elouise Latink (me), the summer days we conducted Camp Kiddie Joy in my back yard, and the many, many times we costumed ourselves, laughed uncontrollably, and seized, together, the joy and the journey of life in Bellingham and on this planet.
In January of 2005, Amy was diagnosed with Stage 1 Breast Cancer, and for a horrible, terrifying time, there was a chance that these stories, these memories, this life that we had shared, would become anecdotes that I told at gatherings with our amazing group of friends: "Remember that time when Amy...." "Remember how Amy used to...." "I wish Amy were here to..." But Amy received excellent treatment at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance (in her words, "the juice bar") survived her cancer, and continues to be one of the most charismatic, vibrant, life-affirming people I am honored to know.

Amy says that one of the worst days of her cancer diagnosis was when her doctor gave her a prescription for a wig. Fortunately, she never had to fill it, because she didn't lose her hair, but lots of people with cancer aren't so lucky. And if you read, Hair: Public, Political, Extremely Personal by Diane Simon, you'll appreciate even more how our tresses not only frame our faces, but define who we are. As someone who has spent the past twenty years growing, caring for, wrestling with, and cleaning up after long, curly, hair, I know exactly what it means to be defined, at least in part, by the dead stuff hanging from my head.

Every year at my school, a cancer-awareness week is followed by an assembly in which students buy raffle tickets to shave the head of a dozen or so teachers. Many students also volunteer to have their heads shaved to show solidarity to those fighting cancer, and the funds raised are donated to Children's Hospital. This year, I joined in, following the example set last year by my principal Beth, my friend Laural, and a half-dozen courageous students who chopped their locks. This past Friday, Amy came to the assembly at BEHS to cut my hair. I shared her story with the students and then she carefully sheared off my two 8-inch ponytails, which I sent to Pantene's Beautiful Lengths, an organization that makes and donates wigs to women who’ve lost their hair due to cancer treatment. Later that afternoon, my other buddy Jill accompanied me for a touch-up haircut, which my regular stylist, Heather, donated to the cause.

I’d tell you that I went home, looked in the mirror at the curly cupcake that is now my head, and broke into tears. But the truth is, as much as I love having long hair, I love having Amy in my life more. Every day that I spend waiting for my hair to grow out is a day that I might not have spent with her, had her treatment not been successful, and I'd rather be completely bald than imagine a single day without her humor, spunk, intelligence, and friendship. I am so thankful, every morning, when I wake up, that her zest for adventure, our shared history, and a future of fun await. No amount of hair on earth would ever be an adequate exchange for that. When you see me, and my not-so-Carrie-Bradshaw-mushroom-head, I hope you'll agree.