It was a rite of passage when I lost it the first time
Marking my membership of the club no one wants to join
When I lost it the second time it was a blow to my progress
A visible step backwards a private kick in the groin

Sure they'd warned me with leaflets and plenty of links
Info on benefits along with incentives for buying
So much practical advice in a logo-less folder
But nothing about comfort when I couldn’t stop crying

I couldn’t envisage the new look I was forced to acquire
Can I come with you my friends jostled and joked?
No, I decided, this was a private humiliation
It was no laughing matter when he prodded and coaxed

Some were synthetic, limp and lifeless, colours quite weird
The real ones were glossy, light and outrageously dear
I wondered if it’s vanity to save the familiar image of self
But no it’s convention and identity; it scrubs out the fear

When it fell from my head in thick clumps of softness
Gingerly I placed it in a banal plastic bag
When that overflowed I filled another and another
As my head became lighter my neck started to sag

When I looked at my reflection the shock slowly waned
Long pale face, dark sunken eyes becoming my norm
In hospital and home I just couldn’t be bothered
But when I began to feel better I needed to conform

The mirror became less scary although others looked away
And after treatment so horrendous and pain so severe
Lulled into false security with some chemo-free weeks
It seemed like a miracle when my hair began to reappear

Shockingly unrecognisable with more salt than pepper
Like fluff from a hatchling we called it my chick locks
With the next lot of lighter drugs I began to see me
So when it fell out again I jolted with life shocks

This time I was stronger and fed up with moulting like a cat
So I took a sticky roller to my scalp and laughed ‘til I wept
I can see the end of my journey will be later this year
And whilst it’s been a trauma, it’s one I accept.

© M.Rijks 2016

CONTAGION
January 2016