“A woman’s hair is her crowning glory.” I never really considered mine as such until losing my hair during chemotherapy treatment. Sure, I had always had long hair, but a typical day of “doing my hair” was very low maintenance. Until I lost my hair, I never really understood what it meant to me. Losing my hair has been one of toughest parts of my treatment.
Fifteen minutes into my first medical oncology appointment, I thought I had (mostly) held myself together. It had been a tough day, as earlier that morning breast cancer diagnosis was confirmed.
And then I heard the words I knew were coming but just did not want to hear. “These drugs cause hair loss, and it will happen pretty quickly.”
The whole process of being diagnosed was a whirlwind of emotions, but as I left the oncologist office clinging more tightly to my crown, I couldn’t stop the thoughts about hair loss from flooding my brain.
It’s just hair...
…It will grow back.
It’s temporary...
…Your hair is not YOU.
It means the treatment is working...
…If hair cells are dying, cancer cells are dying.
Those phrases up there👆🏼 were all uttered to me as reassurances. I repeated them over and over as I stood looking at myself in the mirror. Despite the good intentions behind the words, they just didn’t help.
While these statements may be true, I did not chose this, and that is one difficult part about cancer that’s hard to grasp.
I chose the treatment without much hesitation while my hair follicles screamed at me to hesitate. It didn’t feel like a choice; it was long hair or long life.
While I wasted away in front of the mirror, about a thousand other appointments, decisions, and questions loomed ahead. Of all of the things to worry about, why did I keep coming back to this?
The Process
My first chemotherapy treatment came and went, and I made my way through the side effects. All the while, my mind kept coming back to what I knew was coming.
As soon as those chemo drugs hit my veins I began to tread carefully around my hair.
I tried to ignore the subtle texture changes that I noticed first–drier, less oily. I stopped shampooing as often to try to preserve my precious locks as long as I could. Day 4 hair took on a whole new meaning.
Mostly, I kept denying that it was all going to fall out. It wasn’t going to happen. Somehow, I’d be some medical marvel and losing my hair was just not going to be the reality!
Yeah, I’m not that special.
The less subtle changes started, and I still kept trying to ignore them. There were more strands of hair on my pillow and in my shower drain each morning. I just kept skipping the shampoo and started brushing oh-so-softly.
For weeks, I was in denial, and then just like that, it all became too much. This was happening to me and I was inconsolable (one moment) and just plain pissed (the next).
I’d stand in my usual spot, brushing with the same tedious care, and strands of hair would just keep coming, one after another. I’d end up with fistfuls of hair after each careful stroke. It was everywhere–on my clothes, in my wastebasket, on the countertops.
While I knew I had to do something about it, the thought of a razor touching my head and my hair falling around me was not a thought I could bear. I didn’t want to do this.
Taking Control
Holding chunks of my hair and sobbing became a regular part of my morning routine, if I’m honest.
One day when tossing yet another tear-soaked gob of hair into the wastebasket, I finally felt that it was time to try to regain some semblance of control over this hairy (bad-pun-intended) situation.
I wasn’t ready, but I knew I’d never really be ready. Losing my hair slowly and watching it happen was agonizing, but I needed some time to grieve the soon-to-be loss before I was ready to take the next step forward.
From the start, I have visualized cancer treatment as checking boxes. This is the list person in me. I have to write down every single thing I need to do, and then I can oh-so-satisfyingly check each one off. âś…
It was time to check one thing off–schedule a hair appointment.
At the first salon, the options I was offered for available times were a few weeks out. That got me thinking, “That’s after my next treatment. What if I’m not feeling well that week? What if my hair starts falling out even more before then? Can I deal with losing my hair for that many more days?”
Finding Peace
I felt embarrassed to go to just any salon, and I didn’t have the will to ask someone to do it for me at home. I had watched YouTube videos of women’s husbands/children/friends shaving their heads; while I found these to be beautiful stories, it just didn’t feel like mine.
I turned to the internet and by chance came across a nonprofit in the area called Peaceful Purpose, Inc. There was an opening that evening. Despite feeling as though I wanted to move forward, I was frozen in a moment of indecision. So I just said yes.
That night, Aaron drove me to the salon. On the 30-minute drive, I don’t think we talked much. I cried, and he just let me.
I’m not really sure I composed myself enough to walk into the salon, but in I went anyway. I didn’t ask them to, but two friends met me there on short notice.
We sat in the waiting area for a few minutes, talking about I-have-no-clue-what, and then we met Betsy. She took us all to a private room away from the bustle of the public salon area.
I explained my situation, that I wanted her to shave my head, and that I wanted to donate what I could. Ironically, in the months leading up to my breast cancer diagnosis, I had resolved that I was going to grow my hair out and donate it. Rather than just get a short, “transition” cut, I opted to just do it all so I could donate as much as possible.
The experience of actually losing my hair in that moment was as I had imagined. I kept my eyes down and didn’t look in the mirror, but I could see the pieces falling around me as I listened to the razor buzzing.
In that moment, I remember feeling humiliation. I was not humiliated because of the actions of anyone there. Rather, I felt knocked down and humiliated by cancer. I had lost control. I felt betrayed by my own body.
Eventually the razor stopped buzzing and there I sat with a cold, shaved head. Cancer, this thing that didn’t belong inside of me, took a piece of me that I felt makes me, me. In the moment, I felt a little emptier.
And then God bless my husband, who made some silly comment about the blond wig with hot pink highlights we had all been eyeing on the shelf.
I let the last few tears fall as I laughed, and I finally felt some peace.
Figuring out How to Do the New ‘do
Finding the courage to shave my head was the first step in losing my hair. The next was moving forward with the new look.
Losing my hair was an outward sign to everyone that I was not okay. Up until that point, I controlled who knew my diagnosis. Once my hair was gone, anyone that saw me would know.
Not only was losing my hair an outward sign to everyone else, it was also a reminder to me. I had taken for granted that when I looked in the mirror before, it was always me looking back. Suddenly, that reflection seemed less familiar.
It took a long time to “get used to.” I still felt humiliation from time to time, and I’d only ever take off my hat when I was alone.
At first, I thought my humiliation stemmed from what others would think of my image now. In reality, to strangers, I’m a woman in a hat. Maybe I am going through some health concerns, maybe I shaved my head in support of someone else, or maybe I just like the look.
It took awhile for me to understand that I actually just needed time to adjust my own perception of myself to be okay with my own self image.
I have come to accept a few things.
- Losing my hair is the reality of this season of my life.
- I don’t always have to be happy about the reflection that looks back at me, but it is always still ME.
- I am not a hat person, but I am a person in a hat for now.
- I am a work in progress.
This acceptance makes things easier, but there are some things that are still just. hard. Some days, I still struggle with losing my hair (and it is growing back as I type this post).
My Advice
What follows is my advice based on my experience. Everyone deals with losing hair during cancer treatment differently.
Be Prepared
I’m borrowing from the Boy Scouts for this one, but I think it’s important. Be prepared for your hair loss.
Decide if you will feel more comfortable going to a salon to shave your head or doing it at home. Decide if you want to “go short” and then shave your head.
Think about the support you want when you shave your head. In retrospect, I didn’t spend much time thinking about having people with me when I shaved my head. I didn’t have a lot of time to think because I took a last minute appointment and I wondered if I should have invited others or at least warned others.
Also, think about whether you will want to wear a head covering so you can plan ahead.
I ordered a couple of hats shortly after diagnosis so that I would have a few on hand. I really liked this style from Headcovers Unlimited. Here I am wearing one in gray.
Headcovers Unlimited has a lot of cute styles, and this one was super soft and had a lot of colors to choose from. Plus, the company was founded by a breast cancer survivor! Read more about her and her daughter’s story here.
Remind Yourself You Still Have (Some) Control
Cancer takes so many things from those that have to go through it. There are a lot of unknowns and a lot of things you cannot control.
Try to focus on what you can control. In my case, I couldn’t control the strands of hair that just kept coming out, but I could decide when to do something about it.
I cannot control how others perceive me and my chemo hats, but I can control how I respond and the choices I make to be comfortable.
I cannot control my diagnosis or treatment side effects, but I can control how I respond to them and the choices I make to improve my overall health.
Be Honest About What You Need
Losing your hair is so emotional, and often, family and friends will want to help. However, it’s important to be honest with them about what is helpful and what is not.
Before I shaved my head, I had friends and family members suggest that they would also shave their heads so that I would not have to do it alone.
Personally, this offer added more stress to my experience with losing my hair. I knew that the offers came from a place of love, but I found that I preferred they didn’t shave their heads. Instead of feeling solidarity, I thought I would feel guilty for those women also losing a piece of themselves. I also just didn’t want the visual reminder each time I saw them; I wanted their presence to offer a sense of normalcy and distraction.
While it may feel awkward or difficult to deny these offers, it is important to be honest about what will be most helpful to you. Explain your feelings and suggest something else. For example, “It is so kind of you to offer to shave your head with me. I think this would make me uncomfortable. Would you come along and hold my hand when I shave my head instead?”
Cancer also takes away your loved ones’ control of many things. Sharing what you need helps them recognize what control they have and allows them to support you in the best way.
Seek What Makes You Feel Most Like Yourself
If you must lose your hair, you at least deserve to be comfortable in your own skin. Or at least as comfortable as possible.
If you want to wear a wig, wear a wig. If you want a hat, wear a hat.
If you get a wig and you don’t like wearing it, don’t wear it.
If you don’t want to wear a head covering at all, don’t.
You didn’t deserve cancer. You didn’t deserve being forced into losing your hair. You DO deserve to feel comfortable with your new look, no matter how long or short term it is.
Find Ways to Laugh
Losing your hair during chemotherapy is certainly nothing to make fun of. However, I personally feel that finding a way to laugh in difficult situations is one of the best ways to cope.
It took me awhile to be able to laugh at myself, but I actually laugh at my hair, or lack thereof, pretty often now. When I go out and ask myself questions like Chandler Bing (“Could I BE wearing anything else on my head?”), how can I not?
I suppose I could have worn a hat to complete this look, but it felt like a good day to let my hair down (is this thing on?!).
The first time I was able to laugh at myself, I was cutting Aaron’s hair. We had gotten a new clippers, but instead of being cautious, I took a cocky first swipe right up the back because I “knew what I was doing.” I ended up cutting it much shorter than I intended…Â
When I finished and he looked in the mirror, he joked that I gave him the same haircut I had. It was just a goofy comment, but it made me laugh so hard. It was a much needed release.
My favorite chuckle came when a dear, curious 4-year-old asked if all of my hair was gone. I explained that it was still just very, very short and she wanted to see. I lifted the side of my hat to show her and she simply stated her surprise as, “Oh! It looks like Aaron’s!”
Sometimes it is that childlike innocence that makes things so clear. She had thought, probably in a similar way that I had at first, that losing my hair would be some weird, abnormal thing. It turned out, it was more familiar than we thought.
It’s Okay to Not Be Okay
I think the best advice I can give from having lost my hair is to allow yourself to feel whatever emotions arise.
Know who your support people are and call on them when you need them. If you just need to be left alone for awhile, ask for space.
This diagnosis isn’t fair. You have every right to be angry, frustrated, depressed, happy, excited, and everything in between. Allow yourself to feel those emotions and work through them.
Then, while you feel those emotions, remember the things that make you smile. Something I think of often is another sweet 4-year-old telling his mom in conversation about me, “but she’s beautiful.” (I’m not crying; you’re crying).
Growth
Though nothing was growing on my head for a while, I found that I grew. It’s fine if you want to laugh at the dumb hair growth/personal growth comparison.
And just like the hair on my head now, it’s slow growth and I’m definitely not where I want to be yet.
I have learned a lot about myself and what I can do. I did not want to check this box, but I did. I didn’t think I was strong enough to cope, but I hung on.
I still grapple with my self-image on a daily basis. I still worry about the silliest and most trivial of things. But I don’t think it is possible to fight cancer and not feel that way. Heck, I sometimes felt that way before cancer.
If you are reading this and are struggling with or have struggled with hair loss and cancer diagnosis, I am sorry you have to experience this. No one deserves this, but through it all I have made new connections in this community of women. Together, let’s make our newfound strength our crowning glory; the hair will come later.
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