The Power of Hair

It’s just hair. It’ll grow back.

People say it, thinking it will make you feel better, as if you just got a bad haircut. So why did the lump form in the back of my throat when the oncologist said, matter-of-factly, “Oh, you’ll lose it during chemo, even with the cold cap”?

However, a few weeks later, I was liberated when I decided to shave it off.

Women like to say, “Oh, I could never.”

I’m sorry you think you have a choice? It’s that, or the cancer wins. Game over.

Honestly, it no longer felt like it was mine — the hair on my head. The texture and consistency changed into something foreign to me and my body. Like this cancer, not supposed to be there, yet sitting in the middle of my chest, declaring to the world and me: “I’m not going without a fight.”

So, I decided at least with my hair, it would be me who decided. Surprisingly, I didn’t cry.

I couldn’t even take my hair out of the bun I had made overnight. The hair I lost had already somehow fused to the elastic band, and I just had to take a pair of scissors and cut it out.

This was the first step. Next, my husband was my barber, shaving what was left.

My scalp was so sensitive to the touch that it felt like a giant black and blue on my head. Soreness from chemo. He had a good poker face because I couldn’t gauge how he was feeling. He was good at always being my rock, the ultimate support.

When the Hair Starts to Go

You think you’ll be spared. Oh, I did these many cycles of chemo, nothing yet.

Then, in a matter of days, you notice the shedding.

First in the shower as you wash your hair. Then all the tangles as you brush your hair. Then you find the hair on your clothes and on the floor.

I counted three or maybe four days. That’s all it took.

One month into chemo. Two cycles. Two appointments in the chemo chair.

This didn’t make me cry. I’m not even sure it was the eyebrows, but the eyelashes. I don’t know what it was about the eyelashes. I guess because the look was complete.

As I looked in the bathroom mirror, there she was.

Me. A cancer patient.

Do you know how weird it is to cry without eyelashes? They stream down your face even faster, nothing to hold them into delicate teardrops.

Hair, Health and Power

Hair.

Hair is feminine.
Hair is health.
Hair is politics.
Hair is power.

I didn’t feel any of those. I had no power left.

I was a shell of my former self. I was at the mercy of my body, hoping it would respond to treatment and that this cancer would be evicted.

I didn’t want a wig; personal choice. I wore hats when I was cold, but other than that, I got used to having no hair.

It also helped that it was winter and I only left home to go for treatment and to see my doctor.

I would joke, part truth, part defense mechanism: At least my head was symmetrical. Or, “Ahh, now I have a hat collection.” Or, I get to save money on shampoo, hair care products and any forms of hair removal we pay to do.

Yep, no wax, razors or threading for me. What a bargain!

I was like a hairless cat with a growing hat collection, a chemo port and a budding sense of humor.

I worried more about my hair loss affecting my husband and parents and making them sad, but especially my two-year-old daughter.

She had recently started getting really interested in my hair and playing hair salon.

Does she realize mommy is sick? I would wonder.

Even if I thought I hid it well and cried in the shower or was busy playing and laughing with her, she always knew when to console me. Sometimes I think even before I knew I needed it.

She would say, “It’s okay, Mama. Do you have a boo-boo?” and give me a kiss.

When she used to see me sit or lie down before cancer, she’d always come and get me up — who needs to rest anyway? Not moms.

When cancer entered our lives, she seemed to understand on some level and met me where I was to play or just snuggle and watch a movie.

Kids are resilient in a way we don’t give them credit for.

So, the first time she saw me with no hair, she stared for a solid 30 seconds and went back to playing her little game as if nothing happened.

When Your Hair Grows Back

When treatment is finally over, you’re in this limbo of a time when you’re not quite sick, yet not quite healthy at the same time.

You go from seeing your oncologist weekly or monthly to yearly. You start your transition back to the non-cancerous world — where people don’t know anything about chemo, ports or oncology visits. Just what they see in movies or what little they saw of an older relative who had cancer.

Where they don’t get the dark humor used to cope with the experience.

Where they believe hair growth signals that cancer is no longer in the picture, and “you’re okay now.”

Your hair growing back is the last physical sign of people knowing. Knowing something is off, or like you went through something.

As it grows back, that becomes invisible and, at times, harder.

I got used to my bald head or very short hair being a caution or warning sign almost. Maybe people would leave me alone or “take it easy on me” if I was going through a hard time and not have to explain or use words.

Now, it’s harder to explain or for people to understand what you’re still going through: side effects, trauma, changes.

Also, when and how to tell people who enter your life post-treatment and post-hair growth how cancer has reshaped your life in many ways at a young age.

It’s more than just hair, or the lack thereof. It is a symbol.

A symbol of health and life going back to “normal,” when really, nothing is ever just “normal” again.

Yet, like my hair, I came back from that dark time.

It wasn’t overnight, but I’m here.

I continue to grow despite what I’ve been through and continue to go through.

I’ve lived with hair and without, but what’s important is I’m still here living.

And that has more power than hair will ever have.

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