Hair,God and other things

“…..only God ,my dear, could love you for yourself alone and not your yellow hair“WB Yeats For Anne Gregory

So why not blog about hair and life ,and how hair, or lack of it, defines identity. Or maybe I should say contributes to defining a part of the self. Outward appearance is governed by body shape and movement, and dress. Hair is a highly visible and easily changeable component of dress .

So now I have the shortest hair I’ve had since I was 18.I f I can find the shot I will put it up : a family photo taken after my graduation, mortarboard sitting heavily on top of a flat bowl haircut and a round face. Why? Well from memory I think it was a gesture of independence and difference.Yes my parents who until then had gone on about my Veronica Lake hair style that would make me blind in one eye, were shocked and upset. It would spoil their daughter image.I was not beautiful, nor outstandingly talented ,and was amongst young women at university who often were (or I thought they were). I got attention by dressing strangely, arguing, and cutting my hair.

Over the years I have had hair of varying lengths and colour, but never that short again -until today. Once before I cut it from long to shorter and that was not a gesture of defiance, just getting older and wanting a change. I regretted the cut immediately(See Barcelona Haircut below)

That was in my 60s when I had completed a long walk on my own – the Camino Frances, a striking out for adventure away from family. I left home for the second time .

I am ambivalent about this most recent shearing .The reason for the cut is that the hair growing during and after chemo is baby hair, fluffy and tufty. I look like a half bald clown when it sticks up around my head. A deluded saint, sporting a lopsided halo. The local barber did a good job of cutting off those downy bits.( See photo above.)

Now when I look back at the old photos where my hair was varying degrees of length, I just feel a recognition of the person I was. I acknowledge the mix of identities I grew into along the way. The loving, romantic, soft mother and wife was one I liked. There is some nostalgia in looking at family photos not seen for many years. It”s like viewing a documentary of interconnected lives. However the pervading feeling is of a sort of contentment, and huge gratitude for the special people in my life. Also for the person I was, with all the imperfections. Family then and now loved me for myself alone. And I hope God loved me too.

The paragraph above does not contradict what is the crux of this blog. Hair for men and women holds several possible connotations in relation to identity. One of them is mentioned above -women with long flowing hair of a certain style may be perceived as owning, or position themselves as having, all or some of these qualities : romantic, loving, gentle, fey, vulnerable, mysterious …….The most transparent and frequently held belief around hair concerns sexuality. The hair of women and men commonly diminishes with age, But it is interesting that whilst bald men may be seen as as sexy,bald woman are definitely not.

Even short haircuts in women are seen as a sign of the end of sexual activity; women cut their hair as long hair framing the face “drags your face down”,”makes you look older”,”makes you look like mutton dressed as lamb ” . “Its too hard to maintain”.

While I don’t necessarily agree with any of the above sentiments, I admit to holding them at some stages in my life. I also recognise that times have changed, views have changed. Short hair is back in. My very short haircut is “elfin”.

Hair is one of the easiest elements with which to hide deficiencies in appearance: imperfections like weight, wrinkles, sagging breasts, double chin. Men still don’t have to disguise all of these ? Maybe I’m making sweeping judgements again. It seems from the perspective of an old, married, happyish, sexually Ok woman that older men don’t agonise about their hair or about their appearance generally.

Women,in my experience, like dressing up. We contemplate changes in appearance because our external self mirrors a number of assumed identities, our multilayered selves. Style of hair, length and colour figure prominently in our make believe. And a periodic reinvention.

Generally we like longer hair because it can be altered. Unless we are Sinead O’conner, young, beautiful with an exquisite bone structure .

Barcelona Haircut

This is not like the Waifs song

I haven t cut my hair to avenge

Or just to test

Your love for me without

My multicoloured strands

Long.

 I didn’t cut it to atone

Or make a point 

Not a symbol of moving on 

Or finding God .

Perhaps a little wish to explore

Possible reinventions.

Oh how I wish 

I‘d kept the swish

Against my cheek 

Untidy hair falling 

Held together by a scarf 

With all my womanly art 

Of looking groovy. 

Couples everywhere 

Holding hands, eating out

Sipping sangrias in sunny  Spanish squares 

And there’re women with hair

Long hair in bits hanging down 

Long hair smooth 

Long hair curled 

Long hair coloured, tied in bunches, plaited, twirled 

Long hair everywhere  

On every street and square

This cut ain’t groovy at all 

 It isn’t even cool

It’s an unremarkable

Haircut

Will you still love me?

Ha!

Suzette Thompson

Note : Credit to Australian band The Waifs.Donna Simpsons song was an inspiration for this poem.

Also WB Yeats poem For Anne Gregory “Only God ,my dear, would love you for yourself alone and not your yellow hair”.

1967 Graduation and proud parents

Hair gone again .feels naked

The old days

To my Father on Anzac Day

I stand this morning on the hill

Listening to the bugle call east and west

Watching the sun rise over this city

Quiet while dark figures lay wreaths

For the dead.

For the fallen, as is said .

The wind is cold today

The sky’s grey

A stillness about our city.

I want to be with my father.

Search for him in the faint light

Where we all look the same:

Young and old, those who are

Remembering,those who

Have nothing to remember yet.

I search for him

I want to stand alongside

Share some of what I think he feels

But never says.

I need to be with him

As he thinks about

First friends who died

Those boys in his battalion photo

As beautiful as my son .

Where would he stand in the crowd?

Silent,at the edges

Not wanting to push in

His peaked cap over his eyes ,jacket zipped up to his chin

Head down against the wind.

He is slightly stooped

Older these last few years

As old friends have died.

I reach into a pocket and open his fingers

Clasp them tightly and move in

His hands are cold .

Does he feel he is the only one left?

Does he wonder?

Did he wonder even at twenty

Why he survived

And what is so special about him?

These are the words I have found to tell

Suzette Thompson

(First written Anzac Day 1998)

Gathering fragments together :Life after Chemo

Ga

Gathering the fragments together :life after Chemo

Well hesitated to write this blog ,but then thought ,maybe it will be of use to some ,or interesting -and a means of my exploring thoughts and feeling s at this point in time .
Me me me
Thats my first thought -after the op and during chemo the focus was(needed to be ) Me me me .To get through the treatment and to get better I had to marshal energy .I drew a circle around myself for protection ,and to halt an expenditure of energy on other people ,other things.Some important and others my habitual propensity to concern oneself with others ‘problems and the ‘minuatae of everyday life “(White ).

I am not alone in this .The latter takes up much of us human beings daily waking space,and some of the night too .And thats our life ,not just the exciting or anticipated events .Just the minuatae,the minute by minute taking in of life around and within.

Thats life ,but some of it had to go .Each fortnight I had the scheduled blood test ,followed by the morning of chemo .Then home with my bottle and a little rest .2 days of “normal” life ,bottle off ,and the anticipation of 10 days of relative freedom -swim,eat well ,garden ,walk ,yoga ,pray and enjoy -all the while thinking positively ,taking deep breaths to relax ,minimum of stress .Short chats with neighbours as I walked past or worked in my garden, talks with my friends.Time with family ,a closeness that had always been there now expressed more openly .Lots of hugs and warmth and laughter.Gratitude ,hope and faith .God seemed near and approachable .

As the 6 months drew towards an end apprehension also popped up its head. believed I would be Ok ,but a little bit of me had plan B in mind -saying bye, making sure that I had said to each family member how much I loved him orher,tidying up !!!,I also thought back to deaths I had attended and remembered how each person ,how gentle ,how brave ,how their life was “rounded with a sleep”(Tempest )slipping from here into a hereafter leaving their light and love behind.

I have shivers up and down my spine as I write the above .And also think on Dylan Thomas “Rage ,rage against the dying of the light “Because I wanted ,and want, to be here .

Enough.Here Iam.Not in Spain in a little village ,Quentar ,as I had planned and visualised.Not walking amongst poppies, along rivers past ancient ,sometimes crumbling but still beautiful buildings ,into churches with their suffering Christ and mother,joining in the spectacular parades and songs of Semana Santa (Holy Week).Instead of eating ,tapas ,tortillas y ensalada,sipping Spanish wine in assorted bars ,I am cooking each night ,going to early bed with a book.Different from what I held in my mind Because none of us are going anywhere ,and those poor Spaniards are suffering more than we are here .

The Easter of the Corona Virus .It looks like it will be the year of the CV.But this is not about CV.This is about me ,and maybe one of you reading this blog

So now ? It has taken 6 weeks to get back to something approximating equilibrium.There was the initial burst of joy and relief after the blood test and scan which showed up clear.Then the meeting with the colon surgeon to schedule removal of the port in shoulder and other minor medical stuff. A slight dampening of spirits as memories returned.Walks and weights again to improve muscle strength.

RECOVERY ? Yes -skin loses most of its blemishes ,blue marks and cuts ,some of the crinkle recedes.Hair stops splitting as much, though retains that thin and standing on edge look .Balance better so that Ifeel grounded not about to topple over .Not as tired so that I fall asleep after lunch with my book.

BITS FALLING AWAY ?Then ,a brief recount as don’t wish to appear ungrateful or a hypochondriac -pains in legs ,swelling in ankles ,pains in neck ,pains in jaw ,stiffness .I did not have during all the months of chemo.Slight fear.No says the doctor not bone cancer .No says the oncologist ,doesn’t sound like chemo effects.Feel like an old woman .I now have sympathy for those old people who shuffle around with mouths turned down ,disagreeable faces I’m old old old ,and its because my body is so sore ,Google google -dont !Could be prolia jab ,and due for another.Maybe its the flu or pneumonia shot ?Could be lymphoma.Could be arthritis ,exercising too hard ,not exercising enough.Stress

STRESS AND OTHER CREATURES Ha thats it .Since being free of the disease have become more involved in the activities of this household .Commonly described as an intergenerational household.Younger members ,who also require support,come and go as they please despite being told the risk to me as “age and immunity challenged.” Plus the CV has curtailed a lot of outside distractions .Am I scared ?Yes.Dead right -this virus is unpredictable, there is no routine to follow .Or rather, the routine of handwashing, not touching face ,and isolation is a deterrent but its still out there keeping individuals away from families when it strikes .This is a darkness out there Like the shape-shifters of my early East African childhood;Lions disguised as folded blankets on the top of cupboards ,or ferrets waiting silently to bite as I put my feet on the floor to run out of the room at night.There was a figure crouched outside the window with a machete poised to slice at my neck if I raised my head outside the blanket .

Now there are no parents to cry out to . The leprechaun like, gentle,warm oncologist has more serious things to deal with,like treating the people who are still having treatment in a space that has to be monitored for the spread of a virus that can kill them faster than their diagnosed illnesss.The friendly nursing staff who pepped me up each fortnight ,the friend who took me to the appointments ( and we had a catch up and lunch after) are not longer accessible The 6 months was lonely ,but a different kind of loneliness .This disease if not about me ,or even about my family -its about this city ,country ,universe

So now my fears are compounded .

COMING TOGETHER But a few days ago the stiffness receded .Not gone .But can go to bed without a scarf around neck ,pain killers ,socks ,a huge cushion to prop up both my legs.I get out of bed in the morning and move without pain .I can move my neck sideways and not cry out with the spasms.

So what happened ? I could ruminate on the possibilities .But right now will keep my fingers crossed ,keep my nose out of others’ lives and problems .i will remain calm and supportive ,LISTEN without anger or attempting to solve others problems .

I will try to be emotionally as well as socially distant .Keep walking and swimming .And start dancing again.

.THANK GOD IM ALIVE

TGIF my father used to sing on Friday -thank god its friday .To the tune of ? I can hear it in my head but can’t name tune .I will sing and dance to TGIA ( Thank God I’m Alive ).

Dancing with my father

Me Me Me -no apologies

Me\ Me me now

Me before -now am slowly getting back the missing pieces Like this moon.Drawing by Zadie Roberts.

(Yoshio Nitta,Sculpture by the Sea,Cottesloe,WA ,2020)

CHAPTER 1. Loomings

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time tozz get to sea as soon as I can.

“A pinch and a punch”.The first of the month

Welcome Autumn/Spring

The first day of April.Depending on your orientation,a month of showers “sweet with fruit(“Chaucer,Prologue to Canterbury Tales ) ,heralding the spring or according to Eliot ,”a cruel month breeding lilacs out of the dead land “( Wasteland) His is a gloomier version of spring.

In Australia of course April heralds the approach of winter ,whereas in England it is the beginning of spring .

The expression reaches back to Old English and the belief that the pinch of salt would weaken a witch ,and the punch banish him or her .We still use the expression ,signalling new beginnings on the first day of a new month.

Nevertheless for me the expression also evokes the Punch and Judy shows that delighted the English part of my childhood :

The annual holiday to the Brighton seaside amongst the besandled and often wet English .The walk along the pier and the show was a break from the jam or peanut butter sandwiches on a damp and sunless beach.No sandcastles as no sand ,or not much on Brighton beaches 65years ago !

But I’m rambling -the quote just came into my head as I was thinking about the approach of Autumn here ,very much like the approach of Spring in England,specifically in my birth town of Bath in the South West .

The sun is less strident here this time of the year so that it shares some qualities with the sunshine now showing its face in Bath .Here the plants are gradually reviving and will briefly recover greenery before some of them are touched lightly and then more heavily by the wind and rain as our usually mild winter comes in ( that is we hope, as now with Climate Change weather is as unpredictable as our lives) Meantime in Bath the plants and trees will flower,emerging from the snow and wet and grey of an English winter into Sprin:daffodils and snowdrops ,bluebells scattered in clumps and bursts of colour.Then,hopefully,trees will show summer green ,and different flowers,daisies and marigolds and sweet smelling roses ,the herbs, rosemary and thyme , will blaze into a splendidly warm summer.

We still hope that the seasons will remain roughly the same Despite our knowledge of Climate Change we still hope for a measure of certainty in this time of the C Virus.Let us cling to a belief in an approximation of seasonal change.

Yes ,a small pinch to jolt me ,or maybe I should throw some salt at my witch and then punch her into oblivion.To remember that the world still goes round. To be reminded of the links between my self here in Fremantle ,and the part of my life in Bath ,England .I may also need a gentle punch to wake up and look around ,to breathe in the natural world which is governed still in part by the seasons .And to take in the new beginnings .

April .Here ,Easter here .My birthday April.My mothers death April, same day.Brief autumn here .Longer Spring there:and she told me that the daffodils emerged from the snow the morning after I was born .

The most beautiful time of the year in both my worlds.Plants no longer battling to survive.Still warm enough to swim in the sea.But some of us can still just stand on a sandy or pebbly beach and gaze at a horizon. Relish the space and freedom ,and the brief warmth .

looking out to sea

Horizon through the rocks -actually the ship is waiting outside port Fremantle ,no longer allowed to dock.

Continue reading ““A pinch and a punch”.The first of the month”