This is a Facebook post from last Thursday:
I got my first proper haircut today since July. It feels like a milestone moment.
When I started treatment my hair went grey and either fell out or stopped growing. I aged 15 years overnight and was not a pretty sight. But then it started growing again a little after Christmas and coming out a darker colour and I had hopes of becoming presentable at least one day. As I said to the hairdresser, I’m not ready to pick up again (that’s months away, ladies), but I have hopes of being a candidate again. I feel almost civilised.
I don’t know if people understand – I need to speak about these things, and the whole journey, in fact. It feels like a dream sometimes I can’t quite grasp. Did this really happen to ME? It feels surreal to have come so close to death and to feel the crippling effects of it still. The whole thing has been a marvellous, unfolding mystery, with not a day passing that something more is revealed to me. It’s a curious, life-changing time of revelation – how can I keep that inside me? And yet, how do I tell of it if I can’t understand it myself?
Day at a time, a week, a month, that’s how it goes, until – later this year – I feel somewhere back to normal and I might have a sense of what all this means for me. Today, my hair cut, my vanity is appeased at least, and I can look forward to a time when I can engage properly with the world I’ve felt so separate to.