We've been talking a lot about women's bodies recently. From Elliott Roger's deranged, misogynistic rampage in Isla Vista to a case in Labrador, Canada, in which school girls were sent home for violating their school's dress code by showing their bra straps, women's bodies have gotten a lot of media attention in recent weeks. We're fascinated by how those bodies should look. How they should behave. What we should put in them and on them.
I'm not sure exactly where, as a feminist, I stand on the purportedly inherent bond between women. I realize that, for some women, sex and gender are not synonymous. I don't feel compelled to be friends with or relate to another person because we have similar levels of estrogen in our bloodstreams. But I do think that women's bodies have ensured (for better or worse) that most of us experience the world in similar, or at least comparable, ways. Whether we're sharing stories about the sexual harassments we've encountered in our lives or complaining about how hard it is to find a flattering pair of jeans, many of us do create bonds with each other through our bodies.
My mom's dear friend was diagnosed with breast cancer about a month ago. It came as a total shock, as it always does, not least because this is the second dear friend my mom has supported through breast cancer. In addition to a number of acquaintances and family members and friends who have faced cancer. In addition to her own cancer diagnosis in 2012.
Our friend's surgery went well and her prognosis was good, although four chemotherapy treatments would be required that would cause her to lose all her hair. This is especially difficult news for most women, not just because we tend to have an overly sentimental attachment to our hair (due, in large part, to the pervasive theory that it is the primary source of our attractiveness and sex appeal), but because the loss of hair becomes physical proof of the presence of cancer.
Cancer is a largely invisible illness that is made visible through this loss of hair. Suddenly, a private, literally internal illness is made external and observable. It becomes an outward confirmation and constant reminder of sickness. A sign that your body has been invaded, compromised, defeated.
So my mother reclaimed her friend's diagnosis in the only way she knew how.
She threw a head shaving party.
Many women will, at the outset of their chemotherapy treatments, choose to shave their heads. Practically speaking, it reduces the mess of balding, as it's hard to keep your clothes, bed, and house tidy when your hair is falling out in abundant clumps. Emotionally speaking, it lessens the shock when their hair does begin to fall out, as it will, rapidly and prolifically.
The party was last weekend. There were cupcakes and pizza and pitchers of sangria. I made a playlist of bad 70s pop. There were pink feather boas, and pink paper lanterns, and pink flowers. But most of all, there was a group of women, women who were bonding over what they felt was a shared cancer diagnosis, and who were taking this step in their friend's recovery process together. When the hair clippers were brought out, there were tears and cheers, pictures and laughter. The honours were done by my mother's best friend, a former hair dresser and fourteen-year cancer survivor, in the kitchen where the three of us regularly gathered to have her cut and dye our hair. There were jokes about whether or not she should be given a mohawk. Exclamations about how perfectly round her head was under all that hair. Constant words of encouragement about how beautiful she looked. There was a palpable sense that they were all in this together, that it was unfathomable that a friend should have to go through this on her own.
It ended up being an incredibly empowering afternoon. It was the reaffirmation everyone needed that their friend would recover and thrive from her life-altering diagnosis. It was an opportunity to embrace the new, unexpected shape that her unique beauty had taken. But most importantly, it was a celebration of her body, of the trials it has weathered, the boundless strength it possesses, and its incredible capacity for regeneration.
