I Donated My Hair (Summer of 2024)

(Video of my before and after donating below.)

My hair has been blah most of my adult life with the same color, the same style and even the same length. I've never thought about making a change... until about a year ago. I read about children who suffer hair loss due to medical issues.

And I wondered if maybe I could donate my hair one day.

It was a random thought.

I'm not adventurous when it comes to hair. But thinking about a child in need had me leaning towards a first-time donation.

My hair grew; I didn't go to the hairdresser out of curiousity; could I grow my hair long enough to gift it to a bald child?

When I finally booked an appointment at my favorite hair salon, it was for a trim. A tiny trim. If I could last three more months, I could donate it.

My hairdresser, Dolly, wished me well. She worried that I wouldn't be able to handle the discomfort of difference.

Yeah, she was probably right. I let her know that I wasn't promising to donate my hair, I was considering it.

My hair grew. Every quarter inch or so I would get out the tape measure and figure out how much could be cut off without leaving me bald.

Six inches. Six and a half inches. Seven inches. Seven and a quarter inches.

Dolly was right; this extra hair felt heavy. How long is enough?

I gritted my teeth and continued on. I wore my hair in a bun every-single-day, no matter where I was going or what I was doing. If I hid my hair, I wouldn't notice how annoying it was, right?

And then from the back door of life, a medical condition busted in. At first, I was patient: this too shall pass. But the problem persisted.

My hair continued to grow: I didn't notice; this medical condition distracted me. And my anger at my sudden debilitation poked holes into my joys. Someone at work didn't follow the law when it came to contagious diseases.

How I suffered.

My eyes felt like pools of fire. I was in constant pain. Life was literally blurry and dim. It was some kind of voodoo karma that I worried about being uncomfortable from having too much hair, and now I was grossly uncomfortable, but the hair was the least of my worries.

This was the kind of issue that would normally work itself out in three days; but this uninvited guest refused to leave. I held my breath and wished it away. I went to bed early. I stopped reading and writing, to rest my weary eyes. I ate raw vegetables and upped my spices and drank more water.

Doctors said I would heal in the next two weeks; the next month; or that within six weeks my painful eyes would be healed.

Nope.

I smiled at their optimism. Month after month I followed that carrot of hope.

I stopped driving at night. I cancelled my humanitarian travel plans for the summer. Surely if I stayed home and de-stressed and took good care of myself, I would heal.

Right?

Right!

My days were peppered with doctors' appointments and medications and crazy protocols that took up my late nights and early mornings.

Nothing brought relief.

Summer arrived which permitted me to sleep late and spend more time trying to quell that fire in my eyes. Since I wasn't traveling, friends came to visit. From Arizona. From Colorado. From Massachusetts. The friends from Arizona came back on three separate times and reminded me to take it easy.

Rest. Rest. Rest.

The medical rabbit hole twisted and turned. #1 eye doctor saw me at my worst. #2 eye doctor offered his sympathies, and said I had to get used to this: it wasn't every going away. #3 eye doctor was a specialist in Boston who gave me lists of protocols #4 was a friend's brother who happened to be an ophthalmologist, go figure. He made me repeat again and again, "I will put nothing into my eyes, other than medication." #5 eye doctor was in New York City and though five months had passed at this time, he was grossly optimistic and refused to admit I was a lost cause.

I turned 59 without much fanfare: I didn't want to go out. I didn't want others to visit me.

My hair had overextended itself. I could easily make the ten-inch minimum for the organizations that made wigs for children.

But where should I donate it?

I talked to my friend, Amy F. She and her daughter both donated hair some years ago and she suggested I check out the organization,

Children With Hair Loss. www.childrenwithhairloss.org.

Winner!

There are so many reasons I chose Children with Hair Loss. They don’t charge the children for wigs. They accept color treated hair and gray hair. I don’t have color treated hair, but there are bits of gray slipping into my hair line.

I registered with them online and headed to the salon.

Dolly worried that I was cutting off too much.

I thought so too, but I stood firm: cut it at the jaw line.

Dolly had experience in cutting hair for donations. She cut my hair dry in small bits. She piled the strands on a paper towel, then folded it into a Ziplock bag. She instructed me to lay it in a sunny window for a day or so to be sure it was dry--they wouldn't accept moldy hair.

I carried my package home and set up my locks in a sunny spot.

A friend came over and picked through my hair. She noted that I didn't have a lot of gray.

Out of habit, I reached to put it up into a bun: oh, it was way too short for that. I studied my hair in the mirror.

Wait, I like this look: a lot. This wild look suits me.

I was filled with a sense of gratitude. I wasn't able to head back to Ukraine this summer to offer humanitarian support, but had find a way to help a child from home. I felt lighter.

My eyes are clearly on their own timeline. I practice patience and impatience at the same time.

For my 58th year of life, I was tame, like my hair.

This year, in my 59th year, I will be wild.

Like my hair.

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