Taking Back the Razor: Choosing Power in the Face of Hair Loss

For many women, hair is more than hair. It’s identity, creativity, memory and mood, sometimes all before coffee. It’s the soft place we hide behind on hard days and the bold thing we flip over our shoulder when we want to be seen. We grow it long, chop it short, curl it, straighten it, dye it and then swear we’re never dyeing it again. Hair is one of the few things we get to change about ourselves whenever we want. So, when cancer treatment threatens to take that choice away, the loss can feel deeply personal.

Chemotherapy is designed to attack fast-growing cells. Unfortunately, hair follicles are enthusiastic overachievers. The result can be brittle strands, clumps on the pillow and that slow, awful realization that the mirror no longer reflects the person you recognize. People often try to soften the blow with well-meant phrases: “It’s just hair. It will grow back. At least it’s not permanent.” These words usually come from a place of love, but they miss the point. Hair loss isn’t about vanity. It’s about control.

Cancer already commandeers your body. Appointments fill your calendar. Lab numbers become part of your vocabulary. Decisions are made in fluorescent rooms by people in white coats. When hair starts to fall out, it can feel like one more thing cancer gets to decide. That’s why, for some women, choosing to shave their head, before or during chemotherapy, can be profoundly empowering.

I was one of those women standing at that crossroads. When I was diagnosed, I nearly shaved my head. I knew I didn’t want cancer to take my hair. I wanted to do things on my own terms. Still, I was scared. I have a round face and worried that a buzz cut would make it look even rounder, like a human lollipop. So instead, I opted for a pixie cut: short enough to feel prepared, long enough to feel like myself.

I’ll never forget sitting in the stylist’s chair explaining why I wanted to shear off my long locks. As tears streamed down my face, I told her about my diagnosis. She listened, scissors paused mid-air, and then shared that she had just found two lumps in her breast. What followed was an unexpected, tender conversation about fear, early detection and the importance of mammograms. In that moment, the salon became a sanctuary. Two women, bound by vulnerability, choosing courage where we could find it.

That’s the thing about hair loss: it can isolate you, but it can also connect you. When a woman chooses to shave her head, she’s making a statement, not just to cancer, but to herself - I am still here. I am still choosing. For some, the act is ceremonial. Friends gather. Music plays. Tears fall. Laughter breaks through. The clippers buzz, and with each pass, a little fear leaves the room.

There is humor to be found, even here. One woman joked that shaving her head saved her a fortune on shampoo and cut her morning routine in half. Another discovered that bald really highlights a great pair of earrings. Many learn quickly that heads get cold and that scarves multiply like rabbits once people know you need them. Humor doesn’t minimize the loss; it gives us room to breathe around it.

It’s important to say this clearly: choosing to shave your head is not the right choice, it’s a choice. Some women prefer to wait. Some use cold caps. Some wear wigs that look better than their pre-cancer hair ever did. Some rock baseball caps. Some do all of the above depending on the day. Empowerment isn’t found in the razor; it’s found in the freedom to decide.

What often goes unspoken is the grief. Watching hair fall out can feel like watching yourself disappear in slow motion. You may grieve the woman you were before cancer entered the room, the woman who didn’t plan outfits around treatment days or count eyelashes on the sink. Giving ourselves permission to mourn that loss matters. Strength doesn’t mean silence.

For me, the pixie cut became a bridge. It was my way of saying, “I see what’s coming, and I’m preparing.” It reminded me that even when so much felt out of control, I still had agency. I could choose how I showed up to this fight.

To the woman reading this who is facing that decision: whatever you choose, let it be yours. Cry in the salon chair if you need to. Laugh when the clippers tickle. Take photos. Light a candle. Say a prayer. Cancer may take many things, but it does not get to define your femininity, your beauty, or your strength.

Hair grows back. That’s true. But what grows in its place, resilience, self-trust and a deeper compassion for yourself, can be even more enduring. Sometimes, taking back the razor is really about taking back yourself.

Cancer has a way of stripping life down to what matters most. It reveals how deeply we value the things we once took for granted and how fiercely we want to hold on to our sense of self. Hair loss may seem small compared to the enormity of a diagnosis, but it represents something much bigger: the visible reminder that our bodies are no longer entirely our own.

Yet within that loss lies an invitation. An invitation to redefine beauty on our own terms. To discover the strength we didn’t know we possessed. To meet ourselves with tenderness instead of judgment. Whether a woman chooses to shave her head, cut her hair short, cover it with scarves, or wait and see what happens, the courage is the same: facing the mirror and deciding to keep showing up.

Empowerment during cancer doesn’t always look loud or fearless. Sometimes it looks like quiet resolve. Sometimes it looks like tears in a salon chair. Sometimes it looks like laughter at an unexpected reflection. And sometimes, it looks like a woman reclaiming one small piece of control in a journey where so much feels uncertain.

In the end, hair loss is not the story, it’s a chapter. One that speaks of resilience, dignity and the unbreakable truth that cancer may change how we look, but it cannot diminish who we are.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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