Henry and I went for a haircut a couple of days ago. We’ve been worrying about his hair coming out for a few days. He has wonderfully thick blonde hair which lives by its own rules and is certainly not concerned with gravity and has never really let a comb bring order to it – despite our increasingly halfhearted attempts.
We were late for the appointment as Henry’s blood transfusion took a little longer than expected. It turned out the small bung at the end of Henry’s wigglies was leaking. Each time the nurse pulled back on the syringe she could only pull back air which made me worried that his port had been open to the air and therefore possible infection for several days. Of course, it had not… it was simply that the bung at the end of the wiggly was leaking and needed replacing. It took a while to sort this out and begin the transfusion which took up the next four hours.
So when we eventually arrived at the hairdressers it was after dark. What amazes me daily about this is Henry’s extraordinary attitude. It goes beyond forbearance. Now he is taking a break from the steroids that distort and magnify his mood, he is almost always in high spirits. He has taken the news of his forthcoming moult without showing any concern at all. So while I was explaining to the sympathetic hairdressers that his therapy would mean his hair would come out and needed drastic shortening, he was hooting at the wigs arranged on mannequins in the corner of the salon. He would have had them all on if I hadn’t stopped him taking full advantage of the staff.
Now a few days later, his hair is really beginning to thin.