I sat on a stool in mum’s kitchen. We discussed the best way to tackle it.

A number of smaller plaits to maximise the length was the agreement.

I took a selfie with pigtails at the front, I used to wear my hair like that. We called them ‘pussy cats’.

This part was fun. Memories of childhood and mum doing small plaits all over my head so I could dress up as raggedy ann.

Not so fun for mum, her back started hurting.

I knew she would rather I didn’t shave my head. So I felt guilty. But she wanted to continue.

We moved to the lounge where I sat on the floor. Sideways looks came my way from my nephews. My niece was oblivious. Hair didn’t matter to her.

Once the plaits were done (I am not sure how many, I didn’t count) the butterflies started up in my belly.

I took another selfie.

Pushing on through the fear is the only way I know.

So I asked mum to cut off the plaits right away.

Back to the kitchen stool. As the first plait was cut off my butterflies became leaden weights. My hair is not heavy, so I didn’t feel lighter as the plaited hair was dropped into a ziplock bag. The braids looked sad. Skinny. And not as much in the bag as I imagined. Would they even want my fine, frizzy hair for a wig?

But now I had spikes of hair. Varied lengths around my head. I took another selfie.

My mum and sister did not want to be involved in the shaving. My brother had gleefully volunteered.

I had raised over $4,000 for cancer by this stage. It was for a good cause. My brother had donated but tells me it was to see me bald.

We discussed lengths, I suggested starting with a #2. My brother decided a #4 and then see.

There was a plan to let my nephew colour my hair with hair chalk, but even with wet hair my amazon chalks didn’t work.

So onto the shaving we went.

I could see a crowd in the kitchen, I was outside. They were talking inside but I could not hear words.

I sat in a chair, with a sarong around my shoulders. And my brother shaved a strip up the back of my head.

I felt a moment of shock. Of ‘oh shit’. Of ‘I can’t go back now’.

I am not sure how long it took to get my hair down to a #4. But we all agreed my fine hair was short enough at that length. My sister helped tidy the edges. I didn’t take a selfie while it was being done. I didn’t want to see.

I had a hat with me, and several more at home.

I expected the worst. A badly shaped head. Some scars peering through. My birthmark fully exposed.

I guess my sister helping was a good sign.

Mum was surprised. She thought I was going truly hairless. If my brother had gone there, I would have let him. But I will be forever grateful he didn’t!

I sat through dinner. It needed more tidying I was told. But mostly people didn’t pay my head much attention. Our family dinners are noisy and fun. Hair is rarely a topic.

The next morning it all hit me. A week and 1 day after deciding to see if I could raise $2,000 for cancer research and support if I offered to shave my head I sat on my lounge and shed a tear. I had raised $4750. And my hair had gone from over 40cm (~16″) long to less than 1cm. Such a huge change.

But then a neighbour helped tidy it up. And his wife lent me a headband. With some makeup I looked quite cute.

Maybe I could adjust to short hair?

That was 2 weeks ago.

I now own many headbands, and new earrings. I have a ‘headband lady’.

I swim and by the time I am at my towel my hair is nearly dry.

I use a lot less shampoo. I have zero knots.

I can wear a hat and take it off without worrying about ‘hat hair’. I wear hats a lot – my poor scalp is very unprotected!

I will grow it enough to get it ‘styled’… but I might give short hair a try for a bit.

After all, I think it will grow on me (sorry!).