When I talk to people about my sisters, they ask, “The brunette or the redhead?” The baby sister of the trio, I am- or was- the blonde. Since childhood, our hair colors have given us distinction from each other. Hair has been a part of my identity.
Anyone who says losing your hair doesn’t matter is lying. Who hasn’t been upset or even cried over a bad haircut? Now multiply that by one hundred. That’s how upsetting it is to lose all of your hair as a result of treating a disease that you didn’t want in the first place. Yes, it will grow back, but that doesn't help at the time.
My hair. So personal, so familiar, and despite my tendency to frequently change its style and color, an appendage that in my almost 33 years I had never been without. Had never had to think about being without it.
My head of hair that I for years had deliberately grown long was on the forefront of my mind the days after my diagnosis of breast cancer. I’d catch myself staring at it in the mirror or simply holding it in my hands, trying to store in my mind and in the memory of touch what it looked like, what it felt like. How many bad hair days had I had, saying, “I hate my hair! I want to chop it all off!”? How many times had I absentmindedly thrown it up in a messy bun on the top of my head, combed my hands through it, or twirled it around my fingers, and not truly appreciated it? I sure appreciated it then.
My hair, seen here on our wedding day, was long and full before being diagnosed with breast cancer and losing it to chemotherapy. Photo by Katie Lewis Photography.
I heard the word chemotherapy and immediately panicked. All of this hair- my hair- would soon be gone, and questions flew around my head faster than I could keep track of them. Should I cut and donate it before it fell out? Should I shave it in an attempt to fake some sense of control? Maybe I should let each strand fall out on its own, refusing to say to goodbye sooner than absolutely necessary?
Funny how when faced with a cancer diagnosis, death was the first fear I encountered, immediately followed by the fear of losing my hair. I knew it would be temporary and I knew that as a tradeoff, my hair, in exchange for killing the cancer and a chance at a longer life, was worth the price. Still I thought, if I’m going to go through all this, it’s not fair to have to do it without my hair.
Our hair is one of the things that make us unique, recognizable. Ourselves. I think it is this that scared me the most. If something like my hair could be such a distinguishable part of my identity, what would happen when it was gone? Would the cancer become my identity? Because, let’s face it, a bald head is the most recognizable trait of the disease.
What would happen when I lost that part of my identity and it was replaced with a new identity: a bald head, a flashing sign that read “Upon first glance you will see me as nothing more than a cancer patient”?
I tried fighting it. Tried to take back control over as much as I could and, with encouragement from my oncologist, decided to use cold caps to attempt to preserve my hair. As much as the idea of keeping my hair through this process was a comfort, I oddly enough also struggled with this decision. Not only were the caps expensive and tedious, requiring much preparation, but I wondered, would it be cheating if I went through chemo and didn’t lose my hair? Part of me feared I would be missing out on something or somehow not truly earn my survivor title.
It became quickly and devastatingly obvious after my second cycle of chemo that the caps weren’t quite working for me. I had been warned that heavy shedding would occur, but hair piled up in my bathroom sink each time I tried to gently comb it with the widest comb possible, and more and more skin peeked through the remaining strands of hair on the top of my head. Not only that, but my scalp was so sore I could hardly stand it.
I had to face reality. I had known going into it that the caps weren’t guaranteed to work for everyone.
They were not working for me.
Hair loss after combing gently. Four days after chemo 2. The day before chemo 3. Nine days after chemo 3.
I tried them one more time at my third infusion, the halfway point, and when it continued to get worse and I was tired of finding handfuls of hair everywhere, I decided to take matters into my own hands by quitting the caps and buzzing my hair.
I assigned the task to my sister, and cried throughout the whole day we had planned it. When it came time to leave for her house, I wasn’t sure if I could actually go through with it.
Nate was calm and just reminded me, “It’ll be okay.” Somehow just hearing that, especially from him, helped. I admit, I was afraid he'd see me differently without hair.
I cried the entire 20-minute drive out there. And then again when I walked through the door. And again when we got things set up in the bathroom. She cried, too. “I don’t want to do this unless you’re really sure.”
As scared as I was, I was sure. I was just sad about it.
It was just so unfair.
After I had properly mourned, I decided if this was going to happen, it had to be done my way, which meant we’d buzz it in the most ridiculous, hideous succession possible so we could have a good laugh while we were at it.
And it felt good to laugh. I think that was the first time I had laughed so hard in more than a month.
Oddly enough, after it was done, I felt better. It was one less thing to waste my energy worrying about. It was surprisingly freeing, and my scalp no longer hurt. Still, I wasn’t ready to show my bare head. I only let my family, friends, and the staff at Roger Maris see me that way. Hats and scarves provided variety and style, not to mention security, that my bare head couldn’t. I had also bought a wig beforehand, but wore it very little during treatment. I was just too tired and it was easier and more comfortable to stick with the hats and scarves at that point.
Throughout the remaining three rounds of chemo and more than a month after, the hair loss continued, but it wasn’t as upsetting or even as noticeable as when it was long. And honestly, I was okay with it. I had been through enough at that point that by comparison, losing my hair wasn’t quite as awful.
The day before chemo 4. Eleven days after sixth and final chemo. Six weeks after last chemo.
I guess I just needed time to accept the fact that my hair would fall out, and when I wasn't ready to accept it before starting chemo, the cold caps bought me a little extra time. I can’t say that it wasn’t hard to deal with, and some days I struggled with it more than others. Still, it turns out that all of comments that people made about how it was just hair and it would grow back, which initially upset me and felt insensitive, were actually true. I just couldn’t see it at the time.
Some days I actually felt stronger or braver somehow without my hair and seeing the new tiny little hairs start to grow back felt symbolic for me. The same way they were new and starting from scratch, in many ways I, too, was new and starting from scratch.