The Sunday Times - UK (2022-04-03)

The Sunday Times April 3, 2022 19

per cent to 30 per cent, and if you prac-

tise enough, can eliminate it entirely.

I went along to one of her classes in

north London. We began with laughter

yoga. Then we moved on to hypnosis. I

spent the next hour and a half mindfully

stroking a stranger and telling her firmly

that she was more relaxed than she had

ever been. She didn’t look it, but perhaps

I was doing it wrong. Motha also believes

that women in the West have difficult

births because of their unhealthy diets,

and advises pregnant women to give up

carbohydrates, including sugars. There is

a special cruelty in telling a pregnant

woman she can’t have a croissant.

I did my best to get on board with all

these good vibes, but, like many “well-

pressure applied by the NHS — as in evi-

dence at Shrewsbury and Telford — in

part to cut costs (natural births cost about

£700 less than caesareans, according to

the National Institute for Health and Care

Excellence). It’s also an attitude and

belief system that many mothers have

internalised as the only “right” way.

And a whole industry has developed

around it. Once or twice a month I would

join a group of heavily pregnant women

to breathe, chant and stretch with all the

grace of a bloat of hippos at a yoga class. It

was a chance to be quiet and to find a

position in which my body didn’t ache,

but it was also a doorway into a brave new

world. My classmates and teachers were

all committed hypnobirthers. The pain-

management method, which uses

breathing and hypnosis techniques, has

many celebrity fans: the model Gisele

Bündchen said that giving birth to her

son, Benjamin, “didn’t hurt a bit”; the

Duchess of Cambridge is said to have

used it in all three of her labours.

Some take it further. Dr Gowri Motha is

a British obstetrician and the author of

The Gentle Birth Method, and is said to

have been instrumental when Gwyneth

Paltrow had her daughter, Apple. Motha

believes that her form of self-hypnosis

can reduce the pain of childbirth from 90

40%

The proportion of

first-time births

that will end up

having some kind

of intervention

Liz Edwards made

the leap from bob

to buzzcut during

lockdown — and

has no regrets

S

lapgate has generated

more hot takes than

anyone’s had hot

dinners. One of the

cringiest came from

Judd Apatow. “I didn’t quite

understand the offence,” said

the director after Will Smith

had walloped Chris Rock

following the comedian’s slur

about Smith’s shaven-headed

wife, Jada Pinkett Smith,

“because to me, GI Jane was

the most gorgeous woman in

the world.”

It’s up for debate whether

Pinkett Smith needed these

heroes stepping in to defend

her honour with their flailing

fists and leery words (it’s not;

I spent £

a year on

haircuts

baldness. Nor did I do it to fit

in with an elite military unit,

as Demi Moore does as the

title character in the 1997

film. I’m lucky that for me it’s

not a touchy subject. Quite

the opposite; I’m so glad I did

it, I’ve become borderline

evangelical.

Blessed with the sort of

hair that frizzes up at the

sight of a raincloud and kinks

like a growing-out perm, I had

long been tempted to get rid

of it all. Lockdown No 1 gave

me the courage I needed. If

not now, when I wouldn’t see

anyone for weeks, then

tresses to start with — a bit

longer than Demi’s do in

Ghost — but there was enough

to make quite a pile on the

floor. (Maybe a few strands

fell on my husband’s

toothbrush too; did I later

overhear, “Get my wife’s

mane out of my f***ing

mouth”?). From quasi-bob to

buzzcut, it was curtains for

my curtains.

And I cannot

overstate how

liberating it was. Over the

past two years I’ve refined my

approach. Now it’s a

Rapunzel-like grade 7 on top,

grade 4 for back and sides —

but I’ve stuck with it because

I love it. Not necessarily the

way it looks, though I don’t

think it’s any worse than

before. But for what it means

for my life.

No more blow-drying, or

brushing, or styling, or clips.

No more swimming cap for

the pool. No more cursing the

drizzle. No more clogged

plugholes. No more volume-

enhancing conditioner. Take

two bottles into the shower?

Now I really do wash and go.

Not only have I got back

the time I used to spend on

hair faff, I’ve also got back the

time I used to take going to

the hairdresser. And of

course I’m saving money.

Before, I probably spent

around £450 a year on

haircuts (sorry Emiko at

Malishi Hair Design, who is

lovely and deserves more

loyal customers). Friends

who have their hair

coloured might have

shelled out four or more

times that. I do have to

make my own matcha

tea, but I can choose the

radio station (Times Radio

or Heart 80s, depending on

who’s asking).

One drawback is that my

head gets colder than it did

before. When I was Covid-

stricken I had to sleep in a

hat, like Wee Willie Winkie.

And hats themselves present

a dilemma. On women, they

look better with a lock or two

escaping winsomely round

the edges; grade 4 doesn’t

give me enough for a kiss

curl.

Still, reactions have been

almost entirely positive.

Friends and acquaintances

have been very generous and

complimentary; inevitably

it’s been immediate family

with the reservations

(“Mummy, is it time to grow it

again?”). Otherwise any

criticisms, concern over my

health or assumptions about

my sexuality have stayed

behind my back and out of

earshot; I don’t know any

American stand-ups.

But the beauty of a buzzcut

is in the eye of the wearer, not

the beholder. The truth is that

it doesn’t much matter how it

looks. To borrow a line from

another of Demi’s films,

maybe Chris Rock can’t

handle the truth.

when? (This was so early in

the pandemic I hadn’t fully

grasped the ramifications of

Zoom... )

I took my husband’s

cordless clippers (Wahl Aqua

Blade; tough enough to cope

with his wire-wool beard); the

grade 3 attachment (it cuts

hair to 9.5mm, almost the full

Demi); some strategically

placed bathroom mirrors;

and went for it. I admit I

didn’t exactly have flowing

she didn’t). Even so, lurking

somewhere in the depths of

Apatow’s hole-digging are the

makings of a point: that Chris

Rock’s slur about a woman he

possibly didn’t know had

alopecia really wasn’t the

insult he meant it to be.

Because shaming someone

for having a GI Jane haircut

doesn’t work when it’s

actually something to be

proud of. I should know. I

chopped off all my hair two

years ago and have zero

regrets.

In my case it was very

much a choice, thankfully

unprompted by alopecia or

chemo or male-pattern

Demi Moore

making the

grade in the

1997 film

verhear, Get my wife s

ane out of my f***ing

outh”?). From quasi-bob to

uzzcut, it was curtains for

y curtains.

AndIcannot

verstatehow

way it looks, though I don t

think it’s any worse than

before. But for what it means

for my life.

No more blow-drying,or

brushing, or styling, or clips.

No more swimming cap for

t h t t c B a h M l l h b s

Demi Moore

making the

grade in the

199 7 film

dn t exactly have flowing ovverstate how

Jada Pinkett

Smith at the

Oscars last

week

25%

Percentage of

labours that end

in a caesarean

section

Rosie Kinchen

with her elder

son, and, above,

after her first

caesarean

section five

years ago

B

oth my sons were born by

caesarean section. Neither of

the operations was an emer-

gency; strictly speaking they

weren’t even medically nec-

essary, but they were the

births I wanted, and I fought

like a hyena to get them. I

had to. The NHS makes it

almost impossible for a first-

time mother to have an elective caesar-

ean. It’s so rare that when I do tell people,

it feels like a confession.

There was a lot to be shocked by in the

report last week by the midwife Donna

Ockenden into maternity practices at

Shrewsbury and Telford Hospital NHS

Trust. Her investigation, which had been

going on for five years, identified cata-

strophic failures that led to the preventa-

ble deaths of more than 200 babies and at

least a dozen mothers over 20 years, for

reasons including a bullying culture in

the department, a failure to investigate

mistakes properly and a toxic obsession

with reducing the number of caesarean

sections. That last part will probably not

come as a shock to anyone who has had a

baby in this country in the past 20 years.

We hear a lot about childbirth being

miraculous — a moment so awesome that

everything before it fades into insignifi-

cance — and you sort of know without

having been through it that that is proba-

bly true. But I was never really into the

idea of labour. I began to worry halfway

through my pregnancy, when someone

said giving birth was like running a mara-

thon. I am not the sort of person who

would ever choose to run a marathon.

As the pregnancy progressed, I started

mentioning this anxiety to other women,

the ones I met at National Childbirth

Trust (NCT) or breastfeeding classes, as

we chatted awkwardly over a spongey

stress-ball boob. I would pepper the con-

versation with things like episiotomies,

or stitches, or the fact that I was getting

targeted advertisements for Oops by

TenaLady and what the hell was that

about?

The response was usually an uncom-

fortable chuckle or an awkward silence.

Most of the women I spoke to wanted to

exchange recommendations for the best

doulas and find out how to have a lotus

birth (leaving the placenta attached to

the baby until it falls off naturally after a

day or two). There was a lot of buzz about

placenta encapsulation services, which

turn your placenta into a packet of pills,

and freebirthing, the practice of giving

birth with no medical professional

present, inspired by YouTube videos of

women giving birth in gardens and

streams.

Of the eight couples on my NCT course

when I was pregnant with my eldest, who

is now five, one wanted a home birth and

the rest were all putting their faith in hyp-

nobirthing to get them through a “natu-

ral” delivery. I was the only one who

expressed an interest in pain relief.

Finally, just as I was starting to think I

might be alone in the world, one of my

classmates took me aside and confessed

that she had booked in for an elective cae-

sarean, before swearing me to secrecy.

Her hospital made her tell them she had

tokophobia — a fear of childbirth — before

they would let her have her C-section.

T

he way you give birth is both highly

personal and something you will be

judged on for the rest of your life,

which is why it continues to make

people unfeasibly angry long after

their children have left home. As a child,

I listened to my mother’s stories about

battling the “natural-birth brigade” in the

late 1970s and early 1908s. She had one

child without any painkillers, the next

three with epidurals, which she

described as “bliss”. Back then, the idea

that women ought to endure the pain that

nature intended was linked with radical

feminism and a reaction against the con-

trolling role of the medical profession

(usually men).

Today, the pressure to have a drug-

free, doctor-free, hospital-free labour

experience is stronger than ever. It’s a

19

MY PAINFUL FIGHT

The lethal failures in

Shrewsbury and Telford

are emblematic of our

irrational obsession with

avoiding caesarean sections

at all costs, says Rosie Kinchen

The Sunday Times April 3, 2022 19

NEWS REVIEW

TO HAVE THE

BIRTH I WANTED

little evidence that it reduces pain. It has

also created a landscape in which natural

feelings of anxiety are dismissed.

At first my midwives found my rising

panic funny. Then they found it frustrat-

ing. As I sailed past my due date, I

demanded another scan, which con-

firmed that my son was already the size of

a toddler. I was given a cervical sweep in

an effort to bring on contractions. At 41

weeks, now a week overdue by the UK’s

measure, I was grudgingly allowed to see

a consultant, who agreed that it was

probably time to induce. She gave me

another sweep, then I headed to the hos-

pital with my birth plan, my labour ball

and my last remaining flicker of hope —

maybe I could run a marathon.

For the next 24 hours I lay in the mater-

nity ward, watched Netflix and ate Mal-

tesers while women on every side of me

wailed and moaned. My own cervix sur-

veyed the carnage and did nothing at all.

By the end of the next day I still had not

dipped a toe into labour and even the

midwives had given up hope. I was

moved into a tiny stationery cupboard.

My birthing ball didn’t fit in and nei-

ther did my giant partner. Somebody

tried to break my waters. My waters

would not break. I think I had another

sweep. Finally, the obstetrics and gynae-

cology team appeared, six of them,

crammed into a space the size of an aero-

plane loo, peering down at me like a child

on a potty who simply will not oblige.

They announced that they would admin-

ister another pessary, which would mean

another 24 hours of waiting. I said I

wanted to go home. They told me I could

not, and it was at this point I did what any

self-respecting 34-year-old would do, and

began to cry. My requests for a C-section,

which had been tentative until now,

reached a point of intensity where no one

was quite brave enough to ignore them.

My son was delivered the next morn-

ing. The medical team were all women.

The anaesthetist held one of my hands

and my partner held the other, and at

11.05am the surgeon handed me my little

boy. He was healthy and so was I. It was

not nirvana, it definitely wasn’t natural.

But it was the birth I wanted and that was

good enough.

I was always going to book in for a

C-section for my second son’s birth, two

years later. The most surprising thing

next time around was that no one really

seemed to care either way. NHS policy is

that once you have had one surgical

delivery, you may as well carry on.

I don’t believe there is a right way to

give birth but I do think it’s time we gave

women the choice.

The Ballast Seed: A Story of Motherhood,

of Growing Up and Growing Plants, by

Rosie Kinchen, will be published in June

At first,

the NHS

staff

found

my

rising

panic

funny

ness” fads, it did seem to fall apart under

interrogation. Why couldn’t I have an epi-

dural? In an age when technology has

made almost everything easy to access

and simple to fix, social currency and sta-

tus lies in doing things the hard way.

A

few weeks before my due date,

when I still assumed I’d be having

what I suspected would be a painful

but painkiller-free birth, the hand-

some Argentinian sonographer

winced and told me that the baby was not

going to be small like me (5ft 4in) but huge

like his father (6ft 6in), and very quickly

my focus shifted. Now I began to research

ways to get this baby out as swiftly as pos-

sible. Then I felt bad about that. Because

the central tenet of the natural-birth

movement is that you are the one who

decides whether or not you have a good

labour: if you think positive thoughts,

you will have a positive birth.

In January 2018, under pressure from

activists, Instagram agreed to allow

uncensored images of birth on its plat-

form. Now the hashtags #empowered-

birth, #naturalbirth and #positivebirth

are flooded with shots of labour in all its

glory. I began exploring this online world

filled with crowning heads, women in

pools delivering their own babies and so,

so many placentas — images of female

empowerment, posted with pride.

But one part of the picture tends to get

lost: that sometimes medical interven-

tion in childbirth is not only advisable but

essential. Because although attitudes

may not have changed, lots of things

about birth have. The average baby today

is 85g (3oz) heavier than it was in 1970,

and in 2016 more women over 40 gave

birth than women in their twenties. More

than a quarter of labours now end in cae-

sarean sections and almost half of those

are “assisted”, with doctors using forceps

or a ventouse (essentially a suction cap

over the baby’s head) to get the baby out.

Instead of being presented with the

facts, women are all too often being fed a

myth. Six of my NCT class, all women in

their thirties having their first child,

ended up with a caesarean section — and

a sense of having failed. One mother I

spoke to, a yoga teacher who had com-

mitted herself absolutely to the idea of a

natural birth ended up with an emer-

gency C-section after a three-day labour

and felt depressed for many months.

Research repeatedly shows that this gap

between a woman’s expectations of

childbirth and the reality of their experi-

ence is one of the key contributors to

postnatal psychological problems.

The NHS, or parts of it, is complicit in

this — and not only in the extreme form

we have seen at Shrewsbury and Telford.

Many NHS trusts offer hypnobirthing to

expectant mothers, despite there being

Chris Rock would have got short shrift from

me too. I’m in love with my GI Jane look