It is morning.

Night’s current spits me onto morning’s shore, and I wake twisted in black seaweed that is my hair. Dead hair abounds: limp, black squiggles across my white pillowcase, between my fingers, strung on my sleeves.

It’s wet and gray outside my window and I note how my insides feel the same. I try brushing myself free from the hair, judging each strand for betraying me like this, then make my way slowly to the bathroom. At the sink, the water running, there is an image that stares back at me of a girl I know of but do not recognize, like a character in a good novel whose story soaks your heart but whose face remains a blur.

My scalp is clearly visible through my hair. I feel like an alien.

The hair that’s still on my head, though sparse, provides me a sense of normalcy through cancer treatment. How merciful such a simple, superficial thing as the appearance of normalcy can be in the quest for survival, bobbling one’s head to the surface here and there for air.

Please, Lord, let my hair hang on. These are the words I’ve muttered daily, half a prayer, half a pep-talk to the sad little strands. But today, as I stare at the face in my bathroom mirror as the strands float into the sink like silent fall leaves, I find myself whispering new words.  Words I never dreamed of uttering before.

If losing all my hair would bring you more glory, Lord, have your way with me.