I started going with dad to his doctor appointments after his cancer diagnosis. He couldn’t drive anymore and his hearing was terrible. I did my daughterly duty with honor, guilt, sadness, pain, love and sacrifice. Every day was harder than the next, but I showed up, notebook in hand and ready to roll. Just like my dad taught me.

From diagnosis to treatment the words flew so fast that I don’t think he really comprehended what was going on, but I clung to every word. As the doctor gave him the news that his cancer was at stage 4, he looked un-phased. Time stopped. It was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he broke the silence and asked a question. “Ok doc, 4 out of what? 10?” My heart sank. I heard the words “stage 4” and I had to hold back tears. I had experienced the ravages of cancer with my in-laws and read everything I could read on staging and prognosis and I knew what “stage 4” meant. I was holding on to faith and on to reality at the same time. I fought back my tears and tried to do my daughterly duty, be present and take notes. Just like my dad taught me.

When the doctor’s started explaining the side effects of chemotherapy, I watched as the words passed by him. He focused on one statement “and you will lose your hair” WAIT!!! What?? He got that “what are you talking about” look on his face. Dad’s closest touch to cancer or chemotherapy was what he saw on TV. He couldn’t lose his hair. He was famous for his billowing salt and pepper curls. I would tease him about his weekly trips to his hair lady. Either he was lying about his weekly haircuts and just hanging out in the neighborhood or he had a crush on his hair lady. He would just laugh and say “Ay Mijita! I am really getting my haircut.”

The effects of chemo and radiation started showing, but dad was not having it. He told me in one of our quiet moments in the morning, that his beloved hair had actually started falling out. He said he wanted to get his hair cut to avoid the slow fall out and patches of hair hanging on for dear life.

Ok, I thought to myself. I can do this. I can “do” something. I offered to take dad to my hair lady. I just knew she would be gentle with him. Of course, dad declined my offer. He said he wanted to go to his lady.

Days passed by and he kept delaying getting his hair cut. I could see his hair thinning. Again I offered my hair lady, but he was adamant that he wanted his hair lady. I thought his decision to cut his hair was an act of defiance against chemotherapy, but after I witnessed the grace and beauty of his hair lady, I knew I was wrong. I think his decision to get haircut, in his time, on his terms and with his hair lady was an act of acceptance. He accepted the fact that he did indeed have cancer, that he was going to experience the side effects and that he had to begin to say good bye, in his time, and on his terms.

We finally made our way to dad’s hair lady. I was curious to see what was so special about this hair lady. I was taken aback from their first interaction to the last. I was especially touched by her gentleness with dad that I decided to take a picture of them to help me remember the moment. It’s a moment I’ve kept close to me, that only now, can I put in words what I was trying to capture with this picture.

The hair lady didn’t notice we walked in. I took a seat and dad patiently waited for her to turn around from cleaning her chair area. She smiled from ear to ear like she had just seen an old friend. With my limited comprehension of Spanish and what I could gather from their body language this is what happened next.

The hair lady seemed to ask daddy where he had been. He quietly leaned over and told her about his cancer and being in the hospital. Her beaming smile was erased in an instant. As always, dad tried to cheer her up as soon as he noticed her concerned look. I’m not sure what he told her. If I had to guess, he probably made a pass at her because she seemed to turn red. He must have told her about his chemo and his hair falling out because she reached up on her tiptoes and ran her fingers through his thick salt and pepper hair. It looked like she was trying to reassure him. She seemed to take a deep breathe to compose herself and invited him to take a seat in her chair.

Dad sat in the chair and stared in the mirror like he was trying to memorize what he looked like with hair. She stood behind him staring at the man in the mirror. It was one of the most intimate moments I had witnessed. She put both hands on his head and leaned over and kissed his head full of hair and then she got to work. For every curl that fell, I found my tears falling, but she cleaned him up good. He asked her the full treatment. She cut and trimmed with such gentleness and he was as relaxed as I had seen him in months.

When she was done, she spun him around in his chair so he could see his new self in the mirror. He seemed to stare a little longer trying to adjust his eyes to his new bald head. Again, she cradled his newly bald head in her hands and gently kissed the top of his head. They embraced and whispered to each other. She told him not to wait so long next time and he just gave her a lingering look. He pulled out a wad full of money and thanked her for taking care of him and his hair. She tried to give him the wad of money back like that would reverse the inevitable words that would come out of his mouth. He started to say something but she stopped him by hugging him again. She didn’t want to say good bye and yet every one of her actions made his good bye, a good bye that didn’t require words. She eased his worry. In that moment, I knew I had witnessed the grace and beauty of humanity. Dad reminded me that you should be loyal to the people who treat you well, you should always leave a big tip, and in turn, you will be treated with dignity and respect. So, I’ll take this lesson with me too, just like my dad taught me.
Missing you much old man!