OH HEY Y'ALL (I only use the world "y'all" facetiously). I wrote this stuff and then I was like, "Do I really want to do the hair scene? It's so cliché, bleh bleh bleh." But ultimately, I would have to scrap everything I have written after this point if I wanted to get rid of it. On top of that, it's something that really would affect Kurt and I think the story would be really lacking without his reaction to the hair loss. So I kept it.
Some language in this chapter, I guess… I really have no idea how bad my swearing has been so far in the story so I'm not sure if my warning's coming way too late, but whatever.
Still concerned that the writing's going too slow. I will try my absolute best to speed it up.
Thanks for all your lovely reviews and thank you for favoriting and subscribing and all that. I love to hear from you guys and it's very encouraging to have all your support! I hope I'm not driving you all away with my slow/short updates.
Exactly seven days after his first chemo treatment, Kurt begins the watch. When he wakes up in the morning, he checks the pillow for stray hairs. He touches his hair gingerly in the shower, testing to see if any clumps come out, and gives it only the gentlest of washings.
Later that day, the second round of chemo wipes out all thoughts of the hair loss, but when he's done retching and crying and sweating all over the sheets in the hospital bed, it's once again all he can think about. That night, as he lies in his own room feeling residual nausea churning his stomach and a terrible fatigue deep in his bones, he is kept awake by the notion that he needs to keep his head very, very still or all of the hair on the back of his head will come out in the night.
He doesn't actually start losing his hair until just before his fourth and final treatment, once he's started to let his guard down. It's one of the first times he's woken up in the morning without the tension, the anticipation of the loss, and he sits up and rubs his eyes and scratches his head, and a big clump just comes away with his hand. There's a sprinkling of fine, golden-brown threads on the pillow. The just-woken feeling in his body, the one that tingles and weighs him down, is gone instantly and it's replaced with the worst kind of pain, deep in his chest, like his heart is trying to squeeze itself into nothingness, into a black hole which will consume him.
His dad had bought him an electric razor a few days after his diagnosis. Burt had come into his room and presented him with it straight out of the Target bag without a word. Kurt had only fixed him with an affronted version of his bitch-face, refusing to take the damned thing.
They'd argued about it, but the razor had eventually been tucked away under the sink in Kurt's bathroom.
Kurt slowly stands up and dumps the hair into the wastebasket. The loose strands on the pillow follow with a few stiff swipes of his hand.
His legs move him jerkily into the bathroom. He closes the door and sits down, tucking himself against it.
He's being stupid. He's being so, so fucking stupid, and he knows it. He's endured much worse than just this superficial change in his appearance already, and he suspects that there is even worse to come. But seriously, it hurts and he can't help it. He has always cared so much for his appearance and it's really hard to just let that go, even in the face of cancer.
He coped with the abuse he dealt with daily by always making sure he looked and spoke sharper than any of those stupid, sweaty bullies ever could. It helped remind him that he was better than them. He often sat in front of the mirror at home, prepping his hair and his clothes and his skin meticulously, whispering to himself the whole time that they'll all work for me someday.
Getting sick means he has no hair, it means he hurts too much to choose fashion over comfort. It means he's losing weight and he's gaunt and his skin no longer glows; he is just pasty and ill-looking. He isn't able to deliver the same witty comments as he used to. He doesn't feel like he could possibly be better than anyone else now. He feels, in fact, ugly and useless.
He runs a tentative hand through his hair and closes it into a fist, and another small clump comes out. Standing up, his limbs trembling, he looks in the mirror. It's not as terrible as he thought; he does have rather a lot of hair, so he doesn't have any glaring bald spots, but he can still see the thinning.
Considering the ease with which the strands separated from his scalp, he can tell that he absolutely needs to get this over with immediately. Though he is appalled and disgusted, quite frankly, at the prospect of shaving his head, it is the lesser of two evils. He absolutely will not let anyone see him with his hair falling out in patches.
Steeling his nerves, he reaches under the sink for the razor. As quickly as he can manage, the device is plugged in and turned on, buzzing noisily in his hand.
He needs to get this over with, but he can't. He needs his dad. Abruptly and with a noise of frustration, he unplugs the razor from the wall and sprints out of the bathroom.
From: Kurt
9:03 AM
Can you please come to my room?
Burt inspects the text message with a worried sort of curiosity. Since Kurt was diagnosed, everything—even something that would have been normal before, like his son texting him from somewhere in the house instead of just using his damn legs—has taken on a potential for urgency. He starts to feel the pain in his chest and the crawling skin that usually accompanies a slow-creeping feeling of dread.
Unwrapping his arm from around Carole, he pushes himself off the couch, where they had been watching the morning news. He grumbles a quick explanation as he trudges toward the stairs, trying to tell himself not to worry, that everything will be fine. He tries to keep his feet slow and steady. He manages.
His knuckles tap softly against Kurt's door and the response is instantaneous: a muffled "come in" comes to him from the other side.
His son has curled his lanky frame into a tight ball under the covers; Burt can see his outline through the comforter, can see his body heaving with heavy breaths.
"Kurt, you okay?"
The answer comes in the form of a pale fist shooting out from under the teenager's makeshift sanctuary. Confused and hesitant, he moves closer.
"Uhh…"
Kurt sighs impatiently, even through his obviously distressed breathing, and opens his fingers.
Oh. There's a clump of chestnut brown gathered together in the palm of that hand. There is only a little, a small smattering, but it's enough.
"I tried shaving it," Kurt whispers, and Burt has to lean way down to hear it. "But I couldn't… I couldn't." Slowly, he untucks himself and pulls the covers away so that his reddened face is peeking out.
"C'mon, kid," the elder Hummel replies softly, and he helps Kurt out of the bed. They walk into the bathroom together, slowly, like they are fighting to move against heavy weights on their shoulders.
Kurt closes his eyes and bends his head forward over the trash can, and he pretends that the movement of the razor over his scalp is something more inviting, like he's getting his hair brushed. That way, it feels therapeutic instead of like some huge part of him is being ripped out, right at his center.
As always, thanks for reading and please review!
