Talkin' About Hair Loss Baby!

Head BAM

Hooray! Our first contribution to the Chemo Chic Project.

BAM Bamboo Beanie - review by Sue Mercer

Since losing my hair I have tried a lot of different headwear. At first I wore 
scarves and practiced with tying different styles but I always had the nagging 
fear that the scarf would come undone and I would be unawarely walking 
around with a half-exposed bald head - not a good look. After a while I learned 
to be bald and proud and had no difficulty in walking around with a bare head  
- especially in the summer when the warmth of the sun felt particularly 
sensuous and healing. However there remained a fear of being 'caught out' 
unsuccessfully trying to conceal something deemed socially unacceptable. I 
likened it to a time in Bangladesh when I had gone out wearing a very 
modest, long pashmina, wrapped around me like a skirt, only to catch it on a 
wing mirror and end up standing in the crowded street desperately trying to 
conceal my legs amidst assorted children, cattle, amputee bands and 
rickshaw drivers whilst my teenage son accused me of turning it into a circus. 
However, I digress ... 


I tried a couple of beanie hats that were ok, in that they stayed on my head, 
but I always thought that they made me look vaguely like a channel swimmer 
and I am someone who can swim without getting her hair wet anyway. 
Ordinary hats were not suitable at all; my head had strangely shrunk since 
losing my hair, so the hats tended to fall down over my eyes. 


Now the BAM is cool! It's more generous than a regular beanie. It looks stylish 
and I can dress it up with a fancy pin. I would actually go so far as to say it is 
elegant - certainly not a word I would use to describe a regular beanie. Mine is 
a lovely grey colour and well made. It is double layered and stretchy. I can pull 
it down over my eyebrows if they are looking particularly werewolfy (no-one 
ever told me that when your eyebrows grow back they can grow a little curly 
and in my case with white stripes) and it still looks good. It's generous enough 
to be able to turn up the brim or pull up at a jaunty angle that I like to think 
looks very 1930s movie star. 


The hat is made in Turkey of 68% bamboo, 28% cotton and a bit of stretchy 
elastane. Bamboo is a natural fibre that does not damage the environment 
and most importantly does not add any toxic chemicals to my delicate head. It 
is very soft and warm and does not make my head feel stifled. 


Mine is a lovely grey colour. I am very pleased with my BAM beanie and will 
be keeping it to wear even when my hair comes back. 

Sue Mercer was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukaemia in December 2010.  She underwent three rounds of chemotherapy and then went on a 3 week healing retreat at Hippocrates Health Institute, Florida before having a bone marrow transplant on July 1st 2011.  She is now recovering well.

Editor's note: The BAM Bamboo Beanie is now on sale at only £7.50

A Scarf Tying Primer

This week Chemo Chic is pleased to bring you some simple scarf-tying how-to videos, courtesy of up-and-coming young writer Sarah Beckman.

Undergoing chemotherapy is a hard time for so many reasons. Your body experiences many changes, and one of the most difficult to deal with is hair loss. Fortunately, there are several lovely ways to cover your head so you can feel confident and beautiful. Wigs and hats are good options for chemo patients, and another favorite head cover method is scarves. Once you know a couple different ways to tie a head scarf, you can buy a few different styles and colors to create a new look every day of the week!

I'm going to show you three different ways to tie a head scarf, but before we get started, a couple of notes:

• For head scarves, it's best to choose scarves made of light, thinner fabric. These are easier to knot and more likely to stay in place. Linen, jersey, rayon, and cotton make great head scarves.
• For a special occasion, try satin and silk scarves. These may be more difficult to tie because they're slick fabrics, but they'll add a lovely, feminine touch to your look.
• For most head scarf looks, you'll need either a basic neck scarf that's rectangular. Or, for some methods, you'll need a square scarf.

Now that the basics are out of the way, we can get into scarf tying!

Bandana Wrap - This is the most basic head scarf. For a good amount of head coverage, try tying your scarf bandana wrap style. A large, square scarf works best for this. For a sweet look take a peek at this adorable square heart scarf!

Rosette Wrap - Try the rosette wrap for a sassy look! You'll need a long neck scarf that isn't too thick. We used a snake print scarf made of a viscose/polyester blend.

Modified Turban Wrap - Turbans are a popular look right now, and this method of tying is secure and chic! We used a solid colored cotton scarf for comfort and security.

Like to wear turban hats? Use a scarf to spice up your turban! Using a skinny scarf, start twisting the scarf in the middle. Line the middle of the scarf up with the center of your forehead, and continue twisting the ends down to the base of your head. When you reach the base of your head (where your head meets your neck) secure the scarf with a double knot -- or a bow for a sweet look!

If you're on the hunt for other ways to wear neck and head scarves, check out scarves.net where there are 37 ways to tie a scarf! I'm always on the lookout for new ways to wear a head scarf - please share your tips and tricks in the comments!

Author bio: Sarah Beckman has had a life-long love for fashion. She works as a writer and editor for Affordable Style. And in her free time? Sarah's busy planning her October 1 wedding!

Free Tatts

This time last year I gazed into my mirror. A strange, expressionless mask gazed back at me. Despite covering my baldness with wigs, turbans, hats and scarves there was no getting away from it – I was appearing weirder by the day. And then the penny dropped... my eyebrows and eyelashes were disappearing. Without these seemingly inconsequential wisps of facial hair ones visage takes on the blank look of some kind of other worldly space baby.

At the time I had no experience of what steps might be taken to reintegrate myself with the human race and little idea of who to ask. Eventually I figured out how to draw my eyebrows on with powder and to smudge eye shadow along my lids to create the illusion of lashes. Whilst I never did quite pass for Joan Crawford (above), my hand-drawn eyebrows at least made me look more JC than ET. But it was a rigmarole to perform that sleight-of-hand every morning before heading down to the corner shop for a newspaper. And if the postman happened to knock at the door I hid in the bathroom.

I had heard that one could have brows and eyeliner tattooed on but I feared that I might end up looking forevermore like an escaped circus she-man. I have since learned about medical tattooing a.k.a. Cosmetic Pigment Camouflage. This specialised technique involves using mineral pigments to apply semi-permanent tattoos to replace missing lashes or sparse eyebrows. Following mastectomy, a skilled practitioner can also create the illusion of a 3-D nipple and aureole. Clever shading can be used to disguise white scars by matching one’s surrounding skin pigment.

If only I had done a bit more thorough investigating I might have saved myself a few tears, curses and wobbly brow days.

But that is the whole point of Chemo Chic. I tell you about all the things I have learned and am still learning on my breast cancer journey so you don’t have to go through it all from scratch.

An email has just arrived informing me of a wonderful offer. Faye Parker, a Medical Aesthetician at Bijoux Medi Spa in Belgravia is offering FREE semi-permanent tattooing to anyone about to undergo or having recently completed chemo or radiotherapy (it's not advisable to do it whilst you're having chemo). According to Faye “This technique only takes 90 minutes and will last for a good 12 months before fading.”

I emailed back pronto: “What’s the catch?” and was pleased to get this reply: “No catch at all... It is something they like to do to help. Not everyone will want to go down this route but those who do are very welcome... If there is a massive uptake there might be a bit of a waiting list because Faye only has one pair of hands!”

Bijoux Medi Spa’s ‘phone number is: 020 7730 0765

Tell Your Friends That You Love Them Before It Is Too Late

A friend of mine died last night. We were good friends for many years. Then we fell out. The reasons were trivial. During the time that we weren’t speaking I missed him. I am glad to say that I saw him just before Christmas. We made up our differences and had a good chat. But then I went to Sydney and you know what happened there. Since I’ve been back in London I’ve been avoiding all but my closest friends. Not because I don’t like people but because they inevitably ask “How are you?” It’s a question that I find so hard to answer without crying. So I hadn’t called my friend. Now he is dead and I will always miss him.

Latest Tips

The longer Chemo Chic continues the more people get in touch with their own stories, advice and tips that I only wish I had known when I was first diagnosed with breast cancer.

Lorraine writes to tell me about Cancer Hair Care, a charity started by her hairdresser Jasmin Julia Gupta. This is a fabulous website packed with information on hair loss, wigs, re-growth, colouring hair and faking eyebrows and lashes.

Lorraine has posted further information on the Chemo Chic Facebook page.

Whilst on the subject I want to again mention Made for Life Days. These free pamper days are organised by the Made for Life Foundation to offer a bit of TLC to women undergoing cancer treatments.

Hairy Moments

People are getting in touch all the time with their own tips, advice and experiences. I only wish I’d known half of this stuff back in summer when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had no clue as to where to begin. I knew no-one who had been through it.

Everything happens so quickly. One day in May I was told I had cancer. A week later I had surgery. Three weeks after leaving hospital I commenced chemotherapy. Friends put me on to friends of theirs but I was too overwhelmed, afraid and it has to be said, ashamed, to ask for any useful advice.

But that is why I started Chemo Chic.

I felt horrified and bereft at the prospect of my hair falling out. Back BC, I had a long, thick mane of glossy auburn. My hair was my crowning glory, so much a part of me. Losing it was losing a piece of my identity. The day that my hair came out in my hands I cried and cried. I felt so powerless in the situation.

So I am delighted to pass on to you the following brilliant strategy from Andrea, writing on the Chemo Chic facebook page. Before being diagnosed with cancer, Andrea had bum length dreadlocks. She had grown them for eleven years. Everybody knew her as “Andrea with the dreads”. You can only imagine how much a part of Andrea’s identity those dreadlocks were. Faced with the prospect of having her hair ‘taken’ by chemo, Andrea decided on a preemptive strike. She organised a huge party and invited all her friends. The culmination of the event was Andrea having her head completely shaved. In the process she raised over £700 for Breast Cancer Care. Andrea writes that she did not shed a single tear as her hair was removed.

Now, I know that Andrea will have down days and there will be tears to come. But the ability to turn adversity on its head will give her strength to make it through the ordeal to come. Given the choice none of us would have Breast Cancer at all. But we don’t have that choice. The only choice we have is to get through it with grace and courage or to get through it kicking and screaming. I have had my share of bleak moods and crying jags but I hope that on most days I have chosen to see cancer from a positive perspective.

Now I’m sitting here running my fingers through a fabulous thatch that's at least half an inch long all over. I think it may be time to colour it. Mum advises me to use a chemical free vegetable dye. Wanda says that vegetable dyes are rubbish. Naturally, I agree with both of them. I'm just pleased to have such a high-class problem.

What Facebook is Good For

Here’s a fact, or two. One in nine women will get breast cancer. One in three people will get cancer of some sort. This means that everyone will either suffer from cancer or have a loved one who goes through it. It’s just a part of life these days. And yet there is still an undertone of shame and fear attached to this illness.

I’ve often wondered what facebook is good for. Now I think I’ve figured it out. I started a facebook page called Chemo Chic. The Chemo Chic facebook page does not exist to promote my blog. Rather, I set it up as a place where anyone can go and discuss Chemo Chic stuff: make-up; recipes; wigs; grief; jokes… whatever you like.

There have been some excellent juice recipes posted recently, notably one for green lemonade, delicious, one presumes, with green eggs and ham.

And it’s not just for people who have had cancer, its for families and friends of people who have had cancer. The more we can exchange information and support one another the less shame and fear there will be.

If you’re reading this then please regard yourself as a friend of a person who has had cancer (me). I officially invite you to visit the Chemo Chic facebook page and use it as your own. Just click on the facebook button on the right.

The Thursday Roundup

I don’t care if it’s cold. It’s sunshine that gives my heart its zing. And today is just the kind of beautiful autumnal day that makes me want to skip to the hospital.

But it is chilly. I really feel for the first time that my head is very cold. Even though I’m wearing a headscarf. It just goes to show how much protection our hair provides.

Standing at the bus stop, tears suddenly spring from my eyes. Lots of tears. But I’m not really crying. It’s an automatic mechanism that kicks in because I’ve got insufficient lashes to protect my eyeballs. I jam on my sunglasses and make a mental note not to leave home without them from now on. Then my nose starts to run freely. This is because all the hairs have fallen out from inside my nostrils. I fish for a crumpled tissue in my handbag. It is all covered in snotty blood. At this point I notice that the girl who was standing next to me at the bus stop has moved away.

I’m trying my best to be Chemo Chic but I have to tell you it’s a challenge sometimes.

I pop in to the Harley Street Clinic. Sister Lottie takes my blood then I skip off down to Marylebone High Street to meet Iris and Flossie at the Providores.

Now, I’ve spent a lot of time singing the praises of this New World Tapas bar. The food is innovative, healthy, interesting and delicious. But one has to order carefully. Some of the dishes really overstep the mark when it comes to the price : quantity ratio.

Iris is a big fan of food fads. Recently she was a Vegan but now she is on the Atkins diet. She chooses her eating plans according to a carefully formulated scientific method: whatever is likely to be most irritating to her nearest and dearest. Not wanting to be outdone I mention that I have just taken delivery of a book called The New Raw Energy by Leslie Kenton. “I’ll give you a week,” says Iris, “I mean it’s all very well when one is trawling the internet eating Green & Blacks at one in the morning. But really, these regimes are just impossible.” Deep in my heart I know she’s right. Iris looks at Flossie. “You should go to the Mayer Clinic in Austria,” she opines, “you’ll definitely lose weight. They give you loads of colonics and no food.” “That sounds awful,” says Flossie. “Yes, but it would be a laff,” whoops Iris, exploding in raucous laughter at the very idea.

Iris orders Tuna Tataki. It turns out to be four tiny pieces of tuna, about an inch-and-a-half square and a quarter of an inch thick, with a few bits of pickled daikon, half a teaspoon of fish roe and some minute cubes of beetroot jelly scattered about the edges. It is exquisite but you’d have to have at least fifteen of them to constitute a meal. At £10.50 a plate it has to be said, they’re taking the piss. Flossie and I do not fare much better. We order Laksa. I envisage a big steaming bowl of noodles in coconut broth piled up with fresh vegetables and seafood. What we get is a small pudding bowl, not full of soup. It’s very tasty but contains only a spoonful of noodles and a few wafer thin slices of squid. It’s a meal for a macrobiotic fairy. £9.80! If you want a proper, big as your head Singapore Laksa, I suggest you try the Makan under the Westway on Portobello Road.

“What was the soup of the day?” asks Flossie, wondering what might have been. “Mushroom and tarragon,” replies the waiter. “Yuk!” exclaims Iris, “I only like beetroot soup.” “I will make you beetroot soup,” I offer. Iris crinkles her nose and looks at me as though I’ve just offered her a bowlful of dog excrement. Now I may not be perfect in every respect – yet, but I do regard myself as something of a goddess when it comes to cooking. “Oh, you are a faithless friend,” I inform her. Iris laughs uproariously. She looks mightily pleased with my assessment of her character.

On the way back to the hospital I pick up my ritual chocolate éclair from Paul. That never disappoints.

Today I’m being tended by Nurse Lindy and Sister Lottie. There’s a whole new gang of cancer sufferers at the hospital. This, I am told, is because everyone is on different cycles. Some come every two or three weeks, some less often. There seems to be one other lady that is here every week, like me. She is persevering with the ice hat, poor love, and seems to be having a pretty miserable time of it.

Two chairs along from me lounges a man. I would judge him to be in his late fifties. His throat is wrapped in a silk cravat. He puffs away on an electric cigarette and blows smoke rings.

Smoking in the Chemo Unit! I am reminded of Marla Singer in Fight Club who always smoked in the cancer support group. What panache. If I weren’t totally bald I would take my hat off to him.

Sister Lottie tells me that she has worked here for more than three years. This is an aeon in nursing careers. It must be a good place to work. She also worked in the NHS. “How does it compare?” I ask. A sad, resigned expression comes across sister Lottie’s face. “It’s really a shame,” she says “Comparing public healthcare in Australia with public healthcare here, it’s much better in Australia.” “That’s very disappointing to hear,” I say, “why do you think that is. They obviously have a lot more money here than they do in Australia.” “Yes, they do,” says Lottie, “but they don’t have the equipment. Everything is in short supply. And they don’t allow treatment with the best drugs. I mean, this weekly Taxol you’re having, you wouldn’t be allowed to have that on the NHS.” This comes as a surprise to me. I have always held the belief that the NHS offers the best treatments and takes care of everybody. Sister Lottie adds that my oncologist and my surgeon are two of the best breast specialists in the UK. Suddenly I feel very privileged and slightly guilty.

Synchronicity is at work. A couple of minutes later Suzy Cleator drops by the Chemo unit. “Did you get my email about the eyelash growing treatments?’ I ask. “Oh, yes,” she replies, “that will be fine. You can go ahead and use them.” I will get onto it pronto.

On We Go...

The hair loss seemed to have slowed down in the last couple of weeks but it’s back up to full speed today. My eyelashes have seriously started coming out too.

It’s very upsetting.

Everything I Know About Marketing and Distribution

Chemotherapy session number four. I came back from the hospital about two hours ago and I’m racing to get this piece done before I feel too ill to write.

Jamie picked me up from Harley Street with instructions to drive at top speed to Ottolenghi for rose and vanilla cupcake supplies. Then we drove straight home and ate them before I started gagging.

The nausea started mildly in the car but now it is becoming gross. I've already taken three different anti-sickness medications. I’m hungry but I can’t bear to eat anything more substantial than a grape. I feel dizzy. I have a headache. I’m only telling you all this so that you’ll know what a committed person I am, battling against adversity to bring you my blog.

Actually, writing helps to take my mind off how revolting I feel.

I made a radical decision today – not to wear the ice hat. My appointment with Suzy Cleator wasn’t until the end of the day so I couldn’t discuss it with her beforehand. I talked it over with the nurses, trying to weigh up the pros and cons:- It is so painful. It makes the chemotherapy session three hours longer than it would otherwise be. It looks ridiculous. And most of my hair has fallen out anyway.

On the other hand there is some hair clinging to my cranium. Maybe that is worth trying to save? And I still have most of my eyebrows and eyelashes, I definitely want to keep those.

The nurses tell me that, in order to administer the ice hat, they will have to apply barriers of wadding to the most moth-eaten-baldy patches on my head. This is done to avoid scalp burns. They also explain that the ice hat will do nothing to save my brows and lashes. Well that’s the clincher. Feeling comfortable with my decision, I settle into my Lazyboy recliner for a cosy session of hideously toxic but life-saving chemicals and chats with the lovely nurses.

I’m most cheered by the way that, every time I go into the chemotherapy unit, one or other of the nurses compliments me on my appearance. Then nurse Bess usually shouts out “She always looks great”. It is simply the ultimate cherry of flattery on my cake of vanity.

You occasionally read about psychotic-serial-killer nurses but I’ve yet to come across one who was not some sort of reincarnated angel. No matter how grim the personal circumstances of their day might be they invariably manage to put on a bright smile and find the generosity to put me first. They seldom bitch about rude and demanding patients who don’t even bother to remember their names. You hardly ever hear them moan about the shift work, having lunch breaks at four-o’clock in the afternoon, dealing with hazardous, toxic and just plain disgusting substances, commuting vast distances or working obscenely long hours for scant cash. The first inkling anyone gets that the situation is intolerable is when the nurses suddenly leave the profession that they’ve spent years training for.

Bess settles down at my side with her raspberry red syringes and tells me about her plans to start a fashion website when she goes home to Australia. “Eh, what about nursing?” “Oh I don’t want to do it anymore” she replies breezily. I am torn between wanting to encourage her in her venture yet wanting to discourage her from abandoning her vocation. I have to admit that, for a fashion-loving girl like Bess, the uniforms are a nightmare. But what about the rewarding sense of self-fulfilment?

On reflection, I realise that the whole of society relies on that sense of self-fulfilment – we don’t reward them in any tangible way. I pause for a minute. Would I be a nurse? No, I would not. I am just grateful that there enough young women, and some men, who are altruistic enough to pursue nursing whilst they are still resilient enough to enjoy life with nothing more than an oyster card, pot noodles and beer. And that a few of them have the tenacity to stick it out into the ancient reaches of 30-plus, going on to become ward sisters and whatnot.

“So, that sounds like a good idea. It’s quite ambitious. Have you thought about marketing and distribution. “ I say, hedging my bets. Luckily for me, Bess does not reply: “No, please tell me everything you know about marketing and distribution.” I quietly let the topic slide.

Later on Suzy Cleator looks at me across her high-end specialist’s desk in a kind yet pained sort of a way. She is, after all, my consultant. I’m aware that I’ve just changed my treatment plan without consulting her. “Oh well, I can always start the ice hat again next time” I blurt. “You will probably lose your remaining hair this week.” I do admire her matter-of-factness. This is not a situation where soft-soaping is required.

Losing Hair With Grace and Dignity

If you don’t have a good relationship with your hairdresser, develop one - fast. Otherwise one day your hair might fall out and you’ll find yourself crying in Sainsbury’s car park and you’ll be on your own, baby. Thank God that didn’t happen to me.

My wonderful hairdresser Kell Skott has helped me to get through the horrifying process of losing my hair with grace and dignity.

So, as I’m brushing away the tears and stowing the groceries in the boot of my car the phone rings. It’s Kell. “Can you come in right away?” he asks.

I fire up the Beamer and zip straight round to Golborne Road at top speed – by hair ambulance you might say. Kell gets me a cup of mint tea and one of their world-famous home made chocolate brownies to soothe my nerves.

“Just shave it all off” I instruct him. But Kell has other ideas. Using only scissors and a comb he begins to sculpt this monstrous mess. He clips it all to about an inch long. It’s more baldy on the left hand side than it is on the right. He manipulates the hair so that it is all lying flat and forward and sideways. Sort of a high-art comb-over. He feathers the front into a little fringe. Watching him work is like watching a magician intently conjuring a silk purse from a sow’s ear. When he’s finished it looks sort of like Audrey Tautou 2001 meets Mary Quant 1966. Only shorter than either of them. It’s just so cute.

I want to take a moment here to praise Kell Skott. Today has been without doubt the low point of my life as far as how unattractive I feel. Despite that, Kell made me look great. He opened up his salon early to come to my aid. He didn’t charge me a penny for doing it. In my past life I’ve had the displeasure of the acquaintance of prima-donna hairdressers who wouldn’t deign to pass one a hairpin, let alone deal with one when half one’s hair has fallen out. I mean it can’t be good for business can it? Having a bald woman walk out of your salon.

***

***

I have an appointment with Dr Ducker, my wonderful GP. This is a very opportune moment to see her. The last time I met with Suzy Cleator she discerned that I was overly anxious. “It’s not uncommon,” she said, “having chemotherapy is a major crisis in your life.” She suggested I try some anti-anxiety medication.

I felt hesitant about that. I wondered about side effects. I was concerned about how to come off them when this is all over. And wasn’t I taking enough drugs and pills already? I didn’t know if I could cope with another one. “Well, see how you get on,” she said and we left it at that.

Following the big hair fall out I began to revise my position. I explain myself to Dr Ducker: “Well you see I’m having the chemo and I don’t know what I’m going to do about money and I feel sick I can’t sleep and Dr Cleator suggested anti-depressants but I don’t know if I should take them but most of my hair fell out on Sunday and it was such a shock what do you think I should do?”

“Yes,” she says. “Why don’t you try some anti-anxiety medication? I’ll give you the lowest dose.”

My shoulders relax. “And you’re going to need a wig” she adds. My shoulders shoot up towards my ears again. “But how do I get one?” I plead. “I don’t know but I will find out,” she says in a soothing tone. Now that’s the kind of practical help I need.

***

The Breast Cancer Haven is an oasis of calm friendliness in the daily sandstorm that is breast cancer. It feels safe. They offer a free course of complementary therapies to anyone suffering from breast cancer. I chose shiatsu. It’s a Japanese form of massage that works on the same points as acupuncture but without the scary needles.

Jamie and I arrive early and help ourselves to cups of complementary Organic Honey Mountainbush tea, just the thing to complement the complementary therapy. I compliment myself on my ability to completely fit into the complementary scene. I only wish there was some other word to describe it.

Enough of that. Sarah arrives to show me to her treatment room. I try to imagine Sarah getting het up in a supermarket queue or making a rude finger gesture to a fellow road user as she cuts them up in her BMW. I just can’t do it. She is so calm and beatific. And I’m sure she must ride a bicycle. If that’s what shiatsu does for you, then bring it on I say.

I settle myself face down on the specially designed, ergonomic shiatsu cushions. Sarah begins to press her fingers into my back and then she says softly, “Ok, get up in your own time.” “But we’ve only just started” I think, groggily. Turns out I’ve been asleep for nearly the whole session.

Downstairs, Jamie has also been snoozing on the comfy sofa. The Breast Cancer Haven is one of those places where they make one feel at home.

By the reception desk is a basket full of big jars of Rose With No Clothes Shimmering Body Cream. ‘Kindly donated by Naked, please take one’ says the sign. Fabulous.

***

***

In times of trouble I have found it a useful strategy to write a gratitude list. Just five things but they must be a different five things each morning. It’s amazing what a turnaround in one’s perspective this simple strategy can affect in just seven days. Only it doesn’t seem to be working at the moment. “I’m grateful for the sky,” and “I’m grateful that I don’t have cancer in the other breast,” “I’m grateful that we live in a land where there is social security, even if they make it so bizarrely complicated that one might think that they’re hoping that one might die before they send one any money.” Oh do bugger off.

But I’ve come up with a more pragmatic approach that may help: ‘Things I Got for Free Today’.

From: Canalily

To: Ben

Subject: The best things in life are free

Things I've had for free today:

A free haircut

Free consultation with my GP

Free prescriptions

A free jar of body lotion

Free shiatsu treatment

A free lift to the breast cancer Haven

2 free iPhone apps

still to come...

free dinner at Jamie’s place

What an abundant world!

Lily xx

***

It’s Jamie’s birthday. It’s my first time going out with almost no hair. The trick to working the Chemo Chic look is to wear the hugest most glittering earrings and the reddest lipstick one can get a hold of.

I don’t mind showing my friends my new coiffe but I’m hesitant to let the neighbours see me like this. What’s that all about? You may well ask. I’m not sure I know. Am I ashamed? Or do I not want my neighbours to pity me? Am I afraid of appearing weak? I can’t put my finger on it but I think you might feel the same way in this situation. I grab one of the new crocheted cloches before I walk out the door.

Jamie comes to pick me up. He's just been so generous and thoughtful with all the lifts to and fro. Back round at Mayhem Mansions in Marylebone the usual bedlam is in progress. The two Chihuahuas – Iris’s Chilli and Jamie’s Hugo – attempt to refuse me entry with frenzied yapping. Valentina wiggles about in tight Lycra, batting her eyelids and calling everybody ‘Dahlink’. Muttiah, recently sprung from the nut house, swans in and out of the kitchen dressed in a Sari. Sheldon arrives looking very Gonzo in his sport’s shirt and flat cap.

I remove my hat and sit back to gauge the effect. “Oh, it looks really cute” they say and “lovely” and so on. About ten minutes later I join Iris on the balcony. “I think I’m pleased with it,” I say “only I’m worried that it’s quite bald on the crown.” “It doesn’t matter,” she replies, “you’re so tall nobody can see it.” That’s it. I jam the hat back on.

Dinner is the most delightful free-for-all. For the first course, Valentina has bough about £100 worth of supermarket sushi. It ranks high amongst the worst sushi I have ever eaten. The next course is a delicious French salad that Iris has made. Next up is a selection of Middle Eastern starters: Baba Ganoush, Hummous and Tabbouleh, made by Valentina, also delicious. There follows a spicy Malaysian fish and potato curry with Paratha bread that Muttiah has whipped up. The crowning glory of the meal is undoubtedly Ted’s black forest cake with blackberries and fresh cream. I have never had a cake so meltingly soft and chocolaty on the inside yet nicely crisp on the outside, so wonderfully balanced in flavour between the sweet, the sharp and the creamy. It is a triumph, a symphony and a magnum opus of a cake.

***

Today has been quite eventful enough. Good night.

Bad Timing

My hair is awful. I look like I’ve just escaped from Abu Ghraib prison. It will all have to go now. I call my hairdresser. “This is Kell Skott Salon. We are closed for essential maintenance work today. The salon will re-open tomorrow. Please leave a message.”

The one day of my life that I have a genuine hairdressing emergency turns out to be the one day of the year that my hairdresser’s has a refit.

All My Hair Just Came Out in My Hands

My head was so itchy this morning I decided to wash my hair. I lathered it up and as I rinsed it through, it all just started to come away in big clumps. So there I was, sitting in the bath with half my hair in my hands, like a mop.

Nothing anyone said could have prepared me for that.