Today I shaved my legs for the first time since last August.
Not because I’m lazy.
Well.
Not entirely because I’m lazy.
The real reason is that chemotherapy comes with both curses and blessings.
One of the blessings?
No leg hair.
For ten glorious months, I have not shaved my legs.
Not once.
No balancing on one foot in a slippery shower. No discovering halfway through that the razor is dull. No realizing I somehow missed an entire stripe down the back of one calf.
Nothing.
Just smooth legs and one less thing on my list.
Of course, the curse is that chemotherapy doesn’t stop at your legs.
It takes all the hair.
And while there are certainly parts of that experience I do not recommend, there was something oddly satisfying about crossing “shave legs” off my to-do list for ten straight months.
At some point during treatment, I stopped even thinking about it.
Then recovery happened.
Slowly.
Quietly.
The fuzz on my head started coming back.
The eyebrows that had apparently quit without notice started showing up for work again.
(As much as any eyebrows can after surviving the unforgivable tweeze craze of the 1970s.)
The eyelashes decided they might stick around after all.
Every little bit of regrowth felt like a victory.
Proof that my body was finding its way home.
And I was grateful for every bit of it.
Until this morning.
This morning I looked down in the shower and thought:
“Well, apparently we’ve brought back the leg hair.”
Now, to be fair, I should probably be celebrating.
This is evidence of healing.
Recovery.
Progress.
The return of normal bodily functions.
But instead, I found myself standing there with a razor thinking:
“Couldn’t we have left this one behind?”
Then I dug my razor out of the back of the bathroom drawer and actually stopped and stared at it.
The blade looked exactly the same as it had ten months ago.
Which led to an important scientific question:
Does a razor get dull just sitting there?
Because if so, this one should have been worn slap out by now.
Then I remembered.
I had put that blade on the day my port was installed.
Not the week before.
Not sometime that month.
The actual day.
And suddenly I wasn’t looking at a razor anymore.
I was looking at a timestamp.
Back then, I had no idea how many doctor’s appointments, PET scans, infusions, steroids, naps, night sweats, and worried conversations stood between that shower and this one.
If you had told me that morning that the next time I used that razor I would be cancer-free and standing in my shower complaining about leg hair, I would have taken that deal in a heartbeat.
Then there was the shaving cream.
The good shaving cream.
The extra-foamy, sensitive-skin, smells-really-good shaving cream.
The can was almost empty.
Which raises another question.
Does shaving cream evaporate?
Or has someone in this house been secretly using my expensive shaving cream while I wasn’t paying attention?
I’m not naming names.
But there are only two people who live here, and one of them is a 6-foot-7 semi-retired male.
The evidence seems compelling.
Anyway.
The shaving is done.
The legs are smooth.
The era of effortless maintenance appears to be over.
And that got me wondering.
Is this a thing for men who have gone through chemo, too?
Because back in my day—and yes, I am officially old enough to say that—a man shaved his face and called it good.
That was the entire grooming plan.
Nowadays it seems like the only thing some men don’t shave is their face.
So I’m curious.
Men who have been through chemo, was there any hair you were perfectly happy to lose?
Any hair you were relieved to see return?
Or maybe more importantly…
Was there any hair that came back and made you think:
“Seriously? Of all the things that could have stayed gone forever, you picked THIS?”
Because ladies, let’s not pretend we don’t have opinions here, too.
By a certain age, some hair starts showing up in places nobody ordered it from.
And it arrives with the confidence of a long-awaited guest.
One day you’re minding your own business.
The next day you’re standing in front of a magnifying mirror wondering how a single chin hair managed to grow three inches overnight without your knowledge.
The human body is a mystery.
Recovery is a mystery.
And apparently hair is determined to remind us who’s really in charge.
So today I shaved my legs for the first time in ten months.
It wasn’t particularly exciting.
It wasn’t especially meaningful.
But it was one of those ordinary little moments that quietly reminded me how far I’ve come.
Ten months ago, I was sitting in chemo.
Today, I’m complaining about shaving my legs.
I’ll take that trade every single time.
Even if the leg hair is making a comeback tour that absolutely nobody requested.
-Pattie
P.S. This post is cross-posted here and on my new blog, Third Act With Pattie.
Second Battle Same Me was the story of getting through cancer.
Third Act With Pattie is the story of everything that comes after.
These days you’ll find me, Richard, and Sassy navigating lake life, retirement, family adventures, quilting projects, and whatever chaos shows up next.
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