The razor’s edge is sharp, the blade new and sterile, but my son still wipes alcohol over it. "Just in case," he says. I sit on the edge of the bath next to the basin while he squirts shaving cream onto my scalp and gently works up a lather. We’ve decided to shave my head, or rather the wisps of hair left after the rest fell out.

"I never imagined I would be shaving my mother. Hope I won’t make too many nicks." We both laugh nervously and then he takes the first careful swath through the lather and, leaves the hot water tap running, despite my protestations.

"Mum, I have to get all the hair out of the blade as soon as it clogs up and some of it’s quite long," he answers, so I sit quietly, thinking about the shrinking water level in the Kinneret and our rising water bill.

It’s taken a few weeks to get to this point. I mourned when I saw the hunks of hair on my pillow and streaming down my body in the shower. Felt shock because it wasn’t supposed to happen with the weak cocktail of the chemotherapy. The experimental hair gel should have provided further protection. I hated applying it every night and then sleeping in a shower cap. The mess, the crackle of the plastic cap each time my head moved on the pillow, washing it off in the morning. When it became obvious that it wasn’t working because the cocktail was too strong for my body, I felt relief. No more gel.

Within the nightmare I am protected. My son and daughter hug me as I stand cooking at the stove or working at my desk. Often. My husband’s worried face when he sees me working in the garden. "Don’t you think you’re overdoing things?" He shakes his head and brings me glasses of water.

My son was the one who advised me to have my head shaved so I wouldn’t look sick, not yet volunteering for the job. My husband couldn’t bring himself to do it, nor my daughter. The hairdresser? In public? Could I get to his salon before any other clients? Perhaps just before he closed? I mulled over these questions while getting used to my almost hairless state.

I listen to my son’s constant patter to the rhythm of sweep, rinse blade, wipe clean, sweep again. The razor raps softly through the lather. As I watch the swaths of remaining tufts disappear down the plughole, I marvel at my son’s gentleness. We didn’t imagine the procedure would take so long. If I’m tired from sitting on the hard rim of the bath, he’s even more so from bending, crouching, concentrating. "Not even one nick," he says proudly at the end. "Now wash it off."

My hand movements are wrong. I have to reach further, more gently, my hands open-cupped instead of clawed as I rinse. Instead of hair, there’s a smooth round surface like a ball of warm soft leather.

I’m cold, naked. Every draught is like a gale, prickling my skin. Inadvertently, I rest my head against the wall. Concrete is hard and cold without the cushion of springy curls. I have to judge space differently. I have to lift clothes above my head more loosely so I don’t scrape the skin. I need to lie back more gently on a pillow or against the back of a chair.

That’s me in the mirror, isn’t it? Who am I?

My husband chortles when he first sees me. "I married a Martian!" he exclaims.

My son says, "You don’t look sick anymore."’

My daughter tells me, "You’re lucky, you can explore being someone different. Just make sure you keep your hats."

Hats, bought, borrowed from friends and from my daughter. Some fit. Some used to while I still had some hair. Now I swim inside them. Some make me look like a standing lamp with a shade, some like a mushroom, some like a fashion model.  My black commando-cap is my favorite - stark, in your face. I learn that clothes have to be selected around the hat, and the hat according to the weather. A big hat with a wide brim is a disaster for a bald woman on a windy day.

People ask, "Aren’t you getting a wig?" I don’t want to. A wig is a cover-up, an imitation of what was. And even though it takes a few days to look into the mirror without shock, what I see is me. A me I am learning to like even without a hat. Hatless, I stride along the beach among scores of other walkers, feeling the sun warm my scalp. Tentative at first, then with pride. My daughter’s right. I can be different. Bald is beautiful. Bald is direct. Bald is laughter with a wink.   

Lilian Cohen, originally from Australia, worked as an English teacher at the Leo Baeck Senior High School in Haifa. Her poetry and short stories have been published in journals in Australia, England, Israel and the U.S.

Bald in Haifa was one of the short stories which was submitted to the ESRA Magazine’s Short Story Literary Competition, “My Israel”.