Barbershops and the Kindness of Strangers

On Sunday, August 25, we had the extended family over for photographs and Sunday lunch. After the last of the pictures were snapped but before dishing up, we set a patio chair on the lawn and buzzed off my hair. Rationale: hair loss happens quickly with TCHP chemo and would render me total Pitbull within 21 days. In a HER2 support group I’ve been lurking on, many ladies say the scalp becomes painful as the hair falls out, so it’s just easier to be proactive. I already have the world’s most tender head, so I had no dispute with that.

I also wanted to include my grandchildren in this experience so I could explain that the medicines that make cancer go away would also make me feel sick and make my hair fall out. I was concerned that the littler ones, especially, might be frightened if I were to suddenly go bald from one visit to the next. Information about chemo side effects, however, was nowhere near as interesting to them as my port.

What is THAT thing? Where does it go? What does it do? Does it hurt? Can I touch it?

My daughters and some of the braver grandkids first cut my hair short with scissors; then it was time to get serious with a clipper and #2 guard. For fun, they briefly created a mohawk, then, zip, that was gone too. With my tiny, child-sized head, I imagined I would look like a sci-fi alien, but everyone thought the shape of my noggin was fine for a cropped ’do.

We don’t own the best quality clippers, and a couple days later I realized it might be nice to tidy up the unevenness over my ears and on the back of the neck. While driving through North Branch, I spotted two barbershops situated across the street from one another. For ease of parking, I picked the shop on the south side of Main Street and went in. The sofa and chairs were occupied by several customers, and there was a man already in the barber chair.

“What can I do for you?” the barber asked. I told him I’d like my hair neatened up a bit and asked how long the wait might be. He consulted his yellow legal pad of scribbles before reporting that he was actually full for the rest of the day. Could I come back in the morning? I truly didn’t plan to blurt out that I couldn’t because I’d be having chemo, but I somehow heard myself saying those exact words.

I said thanks anyhow and turned to leave. As I did, I heard one person, then another, and another say, “Don’t go. You can take my place. I’ll wait.” I said it was okay, I didn’t need to have it done. But all these strangers insisted I go next.

Soon I was in the chair, the cape fastened around my neck. The barber was efficient and kind; he asked about my cancer before sharing that his daughter had been through breast cancer and that she’d lost her hair too. When he finished clipping, he vacuumed my head and neck, then asked with a chuckle if I would like a free comb to take home. I felt certain it wasn’t the first time he’d used that line.

“We want to take care of your haircut,” a woman said as I stood up. She gestured to the shy-looking teen at her side. “Actually, my son wants to. He’s been working all summer, and he’s saved a lot of money. He would very much like to pay for your haircut.”

Tears came to my eyes. I could certainly afford my own haircut. And this young man should hang on to his hard-earned money. Yet hadn’t I just been telling my family and friends that I would try to be better at both asking for and graciously receiving help? The mom stood first, then the son. He glanced at me from beneath an overgrown mop of blond curls, and I understood I would hurt him if I refused his offer.

I nodded. “Thank you, that is incredibly kind of you.” His mom hugged me and then he did too. As he did, I sensed his relief. I managed to hold back the ugly crying until I got to my car, where I reflected on what had happened. I had just received a gift, a blessing, and a lesson. At a barbershop, of all places.