The Edge of Winter

Shaving my dear friend’s head during her cancer recovery was a transformative experience

Photo by Chandler Cruttenden on Unsplash

My plane landed at 1:05 p.m. on Wednesday. I was watching the baggage claim spin around when Judy came and pulled me into a hug. I patted her back and murmured, “Everything’s going to be alright,” as if she were one of my children, while over her shoulder, I saw my red suitcase rumble along the baggage carousel and disappear through the rubber flaps for another spin.

As we drove through the city streets, I realized that although it was already winter in Minnesota, it was still the edge of winter here in Ohio. The wind was cool and damp. In the thin sunlight the last of the autumn leaves swirled around the old houses.

We entered Judy’s lovely old brick house from the back garden. I walked slowly around, looking at the aged wood floors, the ornate fireplaces, and graceful doorways. I ran my hand down the banister, caressing the broad ribbons of woodwork.

Judy’s house reminded me of a child’s treasure box, filled with surprises and beloved objects. On the walls, going up the stairs, and tucked in everywhere were pictures, Judy’s needlework, Tom’s artwork and assorted items collected on their travels. Many things were familiar, but new ones had been added since my last visit.

Judy switched on a small box resting on a sill of the big front window. It was rectangular, glowing neon blue with airplanes in flight and a quote from Leonardo da Vinci around the edge of the box: “When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward.” On a pedestal in the corner stood a sculpted head wearing a jaunty Peruvian hat. In another corner, fat, striped “Wicked Witch” stockings were stuffed into a pair of ruby slippers. Delicate glass fairies perched on the mantle. One entire room, floor to ceiling, was lined with shelves crammed with books. The second and third floor contained bedrooms, most of them unused now, cool, quiet, and inviting.

Judy said, “We’re going to sleep in the room with the twin beds. I’m going to sleep in the other twin bed, just like college.” For just a second I was a little disappointed, because in our house, privacy is hard to come by. Then I remembered our years as roommates at Michigan State University. I remembered glorious rowdy spring days and long, lazy nights, ordering pizza and talking for hours until we eventually fell asleep.

I smiled. “That’ll be fun.”

We split a can of soup for lunch, then chatted and rested till it was time for the party. The guests started to arrive around six. Every few minutes, the sound of footsteps on the porch signaled the arrival of another guest, smiling and carrying food, wine, and small gifts. By seven the party was in full swing. By eight everybody was pretty loose and ready to start. We placed a chair at one end of the room and everyone sat in a semicircle around Judy. One of her friends had brought a hairdresser, a young woman with kind eyes named Jennifer.

Jennifer braided Judy’s hair into a single braid at the back. Then everyone took a deep breath and she cut it off. Judy’s hair fell forward, short at the nape of her neck and in two chin-length swoops on the sides. It was, we agreed enviously, a simple, elegant style, and it had been achieved with just one cut.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop right here?” Jennifer asked anxiously.

“Keep going,” Judy said cheerfully.

The next cut left a short, tousled “do” which we all agreed was cute. Again Jennifer and some of the circle suggested leaving it at that and perhaps finishing the job in a few weeks. Maybe this was it. Maybe no more would fall out. After all, it had just thinned out a little. Okay, so the part was a little wider than it used to be, but there were no actual bald patches…

Judy held up a baggie full of hair and pointed.

“This is what fell out this week.”

She held up a gallon-sized Ziplock bag with a huge nest of hair.

“This is what fell out over the past few weeks. There are bald spots underneath. Keep going.”

Jennifer cut slowly, stopping periodically to ask the same question. At each stop I held up a mirror and a photographer friend took pictures. Finally, it was drastically short. For the first time, the laughter and jokes stopped.

“Well, I’m not sure I’d call that cute,” someone said slowly, in the kindest possible way.

We had reached the point of no return. Jennifer reached for the clippers.

“Are you sure?” she asked anxiously.

There was another little silence. Outside the night was dark and a little creepy. Inside the air grew heavy, the way it does just before a thunderstorm. The phone rang. It was Tom. He was away on business until Friday. He and Judy had agreed that she would do this in his absence.

“Well,” we heard Judy say, “it’s pretty much stubble now.”

“Conversations you never expect to have with your husband…” someone whispered.

While Judy talked, we moved around, stretched, and refreshed our drinks.

Judy hung up and settled back into her seat. The circle of women gathered around her and, somehow, they drew the light back into the room with them.

Jennifer turned on the clippers. Soft bits of hair fell like dark rain. Finally, there was nothing left but a small lock in the front, just to the right of center.

Another little silence.

“Sure?” asked Jennifer, her bright smile wavering a little.

Judy smiled gamely, though I thought her teeth were clenched.

“She’s ready,” someone said. “Finish it.”

There was a buzzing noise and with a quick zip of the clippers, it was done.

There was a little silence. Then we applauded. There were cries of “Look what a cute little head you have,” and “You have a beautiful head, no bumps, no dents!”

Judy was held and hugged. Gentle hands stroked her smooth head.

Scalp maintenance was discussed. Lotion, or maybe oil. Perhaps some dusting power, with a soft, round poof. It was late. Everyone left. I swept up the hair. We put on our pajamas and watched a movie. Then we slept.

The next day I took the braid out of its baggie and looked at it. It was definitely thinner, perhaps a third of its original size. From its stubby end, where it had been cut from the nape of her neck, to its wispy end, braided, it stretched over two feet in length.

Susan Gower (left) and her friend Judy in 2016

Judy and I had both had long hair when we met, in college. She had cut hers once, in 1975, to a bouncy shoulder length. Since then it had grown down past her knees. Once in a while, she trimmed the ends a little. On her wedding day I combed out the long, dark beautiful sweep of it, evened the ends, and braided it. But mostly it had grown down and down, through her life and mine, as we wrote and called, met and parted.

I stroked the braid. It was fairy tale hair. It never changed. Never went gray. It just grew and grew. For a moment, I wished I had kept the small scraps of hair I’d swept up from the floor. I wanted to scatter them at my home, in the yard, where the breeze would carry them over my garden and where, in the spring, birds would take the hair and build soft nests for their babies. But no. The image of scattering her hair smacked too much of death. I was having none of that.

Later that day we went shopping for a wig and some soft, warm caps. Judy was bothered by a few spots that Jennifer had missed, so I lathered her head and carefully shaved it again. The thin, milky skin on her scalp reminded me of a baby’s head. Then we decorated her sleek head with colorful temporary tattoos of flowers and butterflies.

“There,” I said proudly. “Now you look like a cross between a biker chick and a Buddhist monk.”

 For the rest of that week, we watched movies, went to the theater, and ate out. We talked, but sometimes we just sat together in peaceful silence.

“I wonder,” Judy mused once, “what you would have said, when me met, if I had said, ‘Hi! I’m your roommate. Will you shave my head in about thirty years?’”

We laughed until we cried.

I left on Sunday. As the plane took off and began to climb, I watched the sky. Yes, I thought, winter was coming. But in the spring there will be soft new growth on the top of Judy’s head, sprouting like the hair on a baby’s scalp, like early grass when the snow melts, like the tender new leaves on trees.

Susan Gower is a freelance writer. Her work has appeared in magazines, newspapers, and literary journals, including Woman’s Day, Good Housekeeping, and The Christian Science Monitor. She lives in Luck, Wisconsin, with her husband Mike. Her friend has fully recovered, and they are still the dearest of friends.