God Hates Me: A Memoir

This story is refurbished...I wrote it about a year ago when the events transpired, so apologies if you've heard this sad tale before. BUT as my first glorious writing on how God is out to get me, it deserves a second perusal. Enjoy.

Part I: Hair

It was not so many months ago that I, in a fit of sunny philanthropy, decided that I would shave off my hair. The hair would be collected to make wigs for small, cancerous children (a good thing); I would be shaving my head in support of other friends who were also donating their hair (a good thing); my bald, brazen head would be a show of solidarity for current sufferers and survivors of cancer (a good thing); and finally, I would be raising several hundred dollars which would be donated towards cancer research (a good thing). So, overall, I thought this was a good thing. I was nervous, self-conscious, and generally girly with anticipation, but the good simply outweighed the bad ten-fold. I would be sacrificing vanity for the pursuit of selflessness, committing what in many cultures is a religious right of passage, and generally displaying through my hairless head that I, Ivy Donegal, thoroughly kick ass.

As the day approached, most friends applauded my bravery. Some feared for my sanity. And still others came up with a myriad of far-fetched excuses explaining why they, too, could not shave their heads. And it was good. On the day of sheering, many gathered in support and awe as the ominous razor was raised to my head and…done. Well, that was easy. Actually, I don’t look that bad, really. And I feel really good for doing a good thing. Yay, me!

But such cheerful naivety is not long for this world.

It was some time a week or so after the event that I, admittedly, became cocky. My short buzz cut was such a success that I felt the need to pursue an even shorter, more radical haircut. So, alone in my home with my mirror, razor, and post-adolescent angst, I shaved my head. Completely. So not a single nub of hair remained. My smooth head, covered in razor burn, about seventeen cuts of various depth, and my own sense of pride, was bic-ed. And, still, it was good.

As the razor burn faded and my cuts healed, however, I began to sense that something was going wrong. My head, while still totally awesome in its bic-ed glory, was looking somewhat…angry. I tried my best to convince myself that it was, of course, nothing. Perhaps my skin was reacting to its first-ever exposure to the sun, or maybe this was simply an outbreak of normal, albeit embarrassing, hairline acne. Or maybe, perhaps, there is some special kind of razor burn that shows up a few days after all your other razor burn has healed and looks red and rashy and generally gross but goes away because I did a good thing and surely bad things don’t happen to good people who shave their heads for cancer?

According to my sunburn theory, I wore sunscreen. This made the rash worse. According to my acne theory, I used a loofah and cleansing creams and avoiding my beloved chocolate. This made the rash much worse. And while I was still hopeful that nothing was really wrong, an encounter with my fellow head-shaver, Meaghan, served to all but quash my hope completely. Her scalp was beautiful and white and intact. Mine was…not.

As the events above were slowly transpiring, my hair was, equally slowly, beginning to grow back. I thought this was a good thing. I looked forward to regaining the ability to use shampoo, I looked forward to the hair growth covering my confusing and uncomfortable scalp rash, I looked forward to rediscovering my natural hair colour. I was hopeful and optimistic, and so, quite naturally, God felt the need to intervene.

When I first noticed the circular area lacking in hair growth, situated near the front of my hairline, I assumed that I must have shaved there a bit more deeply there than the rest of my head. The term ‘bald patch’ did not even occur to me, even as the quarter-sized, hairless area was made increasingly obvious over time. I marvelled at how hair growth, like so many of God’s wondrous miracles, works in patchy and mysterious ways. I was increasingly wearing a hat or decorative babushka whenever I left the house, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t proud of my shaven head. I was simply…confused. As the rest of my hair grew, several other, smaller bald patches began to emerge. My rash continued to itch and spread. I considered buying a wig.

I booked a doctor’s appointment warily after encountering the term ‘ringworm’ on Web MD. Chronic psoriasis, alopecia, and possible permanent baldness were equally alarming possibilities discovered shortly thereafter. I reassured myself that, whatever this was, it could not be that serious. In psychology class we learned that hair loss could be precipitated and exacerbated by stress: surely that had to be it. I now began to wonder if all of my symptoms could be psychosomatic – could the stress of shaving my head cause temporary or permanent baldness? Could my continued stress over my rash cause a…rash? The timing didn’t quite make sense, but I was nonetheless intrigued.

I began to wonder what had happened to my original, donated hair. Apparently, it takes an average of five hair donations to make a single wig and my hair, which was dyed, would only be usable for wig-undergrowth, if at all. Web MD helpfully informed me that hair loss caused by chemotherapy (iatrogenic alopecia) is almost never permanent, but many other forms of hair loss, hypothetically affecting my own scalp, could be. I began to think of small, cancerous children as crafty, hair-stealing masterminds at the centre of a large multinational crime syndicate dedicated to the black-market hair trade. I saw my own hair, or what was left of it, being traded in back alleys by mafia overlords while small, cancerous children the world over sat in their hospital beds, counting stacks of money, laughing maniacally…at least, those that were still strong enough to laugh. Or sit up.

***

Later this week, I will go to the doctor. And he will tell me that I have a rash and several bald patches, to which I will respond: I know. He will tell me that it could be stress, an infection, or psoriasis praying on my supple, tiny hairs, to which I will nod, because: I know. And then I will shuffle off, dejected and uninformed, promising to book an appointment in two weeks so that the medical community can learn whether my condition has improved or gotten much, much worse. But, by this time, I’ll already know.

Because, you see, God has a problem with me. He’s never been overly fond, if my childhood ear infections are any indication, but I think his general dislike of all things Ivy began some time around my nineteenth birthday. (Coincidentally, I think the exact date corresponds quite closely with my conversion to atheism, but no matter.) And while God may be known for many things - His generosity, His undying love, or His affinity for turning people to pillars of salt – his most striking feature, abject cruelty aside, is his sense of patient, exacting irony.

So, in two more weeks, I will have lost all my hair. And my scalp shall be completely covered in a wretched, horrifying rash, at which small children will point and scream. Society will eventually shun me and I, with only my disfigured head for company, will wander the Earth, unknown, unloved, and miserably alone. And God, atop his silver-lined cloud with his glass half full, will laugh and laugh. Because God, you see, is an Asshole.