The significance of a haircut

In late January, I got a haircut. And I don’t mean just a trim. Several inches below my collarbone when I walked in, my tresses now do not necessarily require a hairbrush. I was ready for a change, and my amazing hair stylist was game to go for it.

What does this have to do with Alzheimer's?

During my mom’s dementia journey, especially during the later years, I was afraid to cut my hair differently. I might have an inch or two cut off, but I kept the style basically same. I never wanted to drastically alter how I looked.

Mom was losing the ability to recognize us, her family who had known and loved her forever. I did not want to do anything to hasten that process. It’s an extremely painful part of this disease. I know some people with dementia recognize their loved ones to the end, some don’t. Mom felt safe and familiar with us throughout, but I knew if pressed she would not be able to call my name nor specifically identify how I connected to her.

Alzheimer's: Will you know my name?

Ultimately, I came to believe that did not matter. We were tied together by love and a bond we had formed when she was still excitedly, and nervously, awaiting my arrival. Her first child. A daughter.

But one of the things I held on to, to try to hold on to her, was looking as familiar as I could.

My dad did one thing when we moved Mom into a memory care facility that I thought particularly ingenious. He selected multiple family photos to decorate the walls in Mom’s room and the top of her dresser. But instead of choosing current photos, he chose older ones. There was a family photo of me, Mom, Dad and my brother from our elementary school days. The pictures of my daughter, niece and nephew were mostly of them as preschoolers. Dad went for what would look familiar to Mom.

As Alicia grew and changed, as kids do, I at first feared that would create confusion for Mom, but their bond remained tight. Looking back, while you can definitely peg us as mother-daughter, Alicia and I are not mirror images of each other. However, look back of photos of me in younger years and the resemblance between us is strong. I think that familiarity helped Mom. Ironically enough, more than one time she called me by my daughter’s name.

I had thought it would bother me more. But it didn’t. Exactitude quickly took a back seat to simply being together in a moment. Yet I still would not cut my hair.

Alzheimer’s taught me so much about life. Honestly, I did not really love the teacher (dementia is cruel), but I sincerely appreciate the lessons.

Somehow this new haircut has been a rite of passing in letting my mom go. A slow but steady step forward that I know she would want me to have the freedom to take.