The Hair Thing

I am ready to discuss the hair thing. 

I have never met anyone who experienced hair loss (from chemo, postpartum, autoimmune issues, hormones, genetics, etc., etc., etc.) and could chalk it up to the cost of doing business. When you lose your hair from chemotherapy, the expectation is to embrace being bald. The hard part, as the person grieving the sudden loss of their hair, is that your pain gets compared to the alternative, which is…death. It’s like the most annoying game of “Would you rather?”

When I heard the word “cancer,” one of my first concerns was losing my hair. Throughout my life, I’ve usually had long hair. Any time I had shorter hair, I intentionally made that decision. Being bald was not something I would ever willingly choose for myself!  The prescribed chemotherapy I needed was potent, and the medical team assured me that rapid hair loss was an inevitable outcome. Even though this was the last thing I wanted to experience, I decided to grit, bear it and make the best of the worst. 

At this point, I was still in the early stage of my cancer journey, trying as best I could to make everything seem better than it felt. I tried to make cancer Cute! Fun! & Positive! (another one of the many unfortunate coping mechanisms you’ll continue to hear about). I wasn’t going to let being bald get me down, and I made every effort to maintain my composure – basically, I tried my damnedest to keep it together. 

After my first two treatments, my husband encouraged me to shave my head and have a fraction of control in this process. When the piles of hair got bigger, I made a date with my stylist to shave it off.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. My depression was high, and I was so grateful my friends met and surprised me at my appointment. The sweet staff let them stay to support me (this was during COVID times, so guests were technically not allowed). I remember repeating, “I don’t want to do this,” and feeling really, really sorry for myself. 

This cancer moment is seared into my memory.  My friends and hairstylist tried to keep it from being a terrible fucking day in the series of bad days. They brought snacks, champagne – someone even snuck in a puppy! We took pictures, and everyone told me I could pull off a shaved head, even though I knew it was unrealistic. This day’s bad luck coping mechanism was hats! Hats and headbands seemed like the answer to my problems and another way I could have some so-called control. So I purchased all of them. 

A week later, a gorgeous wig that resembled my pre-cancer hair arrived at my house as a gift from a friend. I tried on many styles as we FaceTimed the wig maker, but this one looked the most like my hair did before. One looked like the hair I would have if it differed from the first wig. There were some fun and silly ones to make me laugh. I wanted to channel Queen Moira Rose and embrace wigs for any mood. 

It wasn’t until I started to try and wear the wigs that I realized how uncomfortable they were and how unwilling I would be to wear them. They were itchy, slippery, and didn’t feel normal. More than once, I questioned how the Kardashians and Housewives always wear these (I’ve since been told that budget is the variable here.) I never figured out the secret to making mine sit or look right. Every time I looked in the mirror, it felt like I was wearing a costume. 

There came a point where it was just easier to rock the bald look than try to cover it up. Even with a wig on, I still didn’t have eyelashes or eyebrows, so I wasn’t exactly putting out casual, non-cancer vibes either. 

I did wear wigs a few times before summer hit, and I  gave up on them. I wore them on job interviews- that I shouldn’t have been doing because the intellectual and emotional sides of my brain were in the dumps. I wore one for Mother’s Day photos with the boys because I didn’t want cancer to be the takeaway from capturing those memories. I wore one to brunch for Easter, wanting to be fun but immediately took it off when I got to be with my favorite people and could feel less self-conscious. I wore one to a wedding to feel normal-ish, and I wore some on my Instagram stories because I felt more like myself in those than I did any other time. 

Once it was hot, the wigs were no longer even an option. I had to shave my head a couple more times because of how randomly it started to grow back. Of everything I tried to feel better about the hair situation, it wasn’t until I anxiously went into the world without hair that I found a teensy bit of acceptance—a lot of anger and shame, but some acceptance too. 

People are so lovely when you no longer have hair. I am so grateful for everyone who told me I could “pull off a shaved head” because it gave me a little hope that I didn’t look like a total monster. I had strangers all over tell me they loved my hair. It was so kind, but truthfully confused the shit out of me and did not convince me to love it too. 

My resistance to the hair thing came from not having a choice. Most of the time, when I inappropriately share my cancer diagnosis, I don’t want the other person to think I chose my hairstyle. I appreciated all the sweet comments about how short hair “suits” me or that I can pull anything off. The problem was/is; I hated it. I was insecure about many physical things throughout treatment, which took a toll. It was a good practice in being vulnerable, but the shame and embarrassment I felt led me to a dark place. 

I’ve heard it all. “It’s just hair,” “Well, I would rather you be alive than have hair,” “It will grow back,” and so many other well-intentioned sentiments. The problem is that it minimizes a traumatizing part of the cancer and chemotherapy experience. 

It’s been two years since I stopped the chemotherapy portion of my treatment. In my mind, I would have grown out a bob by the end of 2022, if not sooner. The reality is that growing hair back from zero takes much longer than anticipated and a million times longer than desired. 

While this might feel excessively focused on hair, it’s more complex than that. Therapy has helped me realize my struggle with losing hair isn’t solely about physical appearance—instead, the disconnect between how I perceive myself in my mind and how I feel internally. The depression I experienced from hair loss was rooted in the inability to present myself to the world in alignment with the self-image I held in my thoughts. This dissonance left me feeling disconnected from my true self. 

This is the thing about dealing with bad fucking luck. 

Are you pissed off? ABSOLUTELY. 

Do you hate everything about it? 100% yes!

Is it one thing you’re mad about or all of the things? Who’s to say- but probably all of them. 

Are there things to learn and ways to grow, even in the bad shit? UGH. Yes. I just wasn’t ready to learn and grow until I felt the depths of just how angry this entire experience left me.