There are certain aspects of life that we often take for granted without questioning them. Personally, I always had a thick head of hair, even though I didn’t always have perfect “good hair days”. I never felt the need to resort to tweakments, fillers, or Botox in order to combat the effects of aging. Instead, I invested my time, attention, and money into caring for my hair. It was reliable and I considered it to be my greatest physical attribute.
However, everything changed when I was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma at the age of 61, just two days before England entered its second lockdown in November 2020. One of the first concerns that crossed my mind when consulting with my oncologist was whether the chemotherapy treatment would cause me to lose my hair. To my dismay, his response was an affirmative “yes”. And he wasn’t exaggerating. Within a mere 10 days of completing my first round of chemo, I woke up one morning to discover that my once sleek mane had transformed into a wild bird’s nest. It was matted, tangled, and stuck out from my head like a wispy halo.
I stared at my reflection in horror and disbelief. It was at that moment that the reality of my cancer diagnosis truly sank in. It was a sobering and saddening realization. I didn’t dare brush or wash my hair, fearing that it would fall out. Instead, I immediately called my trusted hairdresser, Clive, and asked if he could come to my house and give me a short pixie cut. I couldn’t believe that just a single dose of chemotherapy had caused such a rapid and drastic change to my once glossy hair. It felt like going through a slow breakup with a lover. I kept thinking that if only I had one more chance, I could salvage it and make it work.
Clive arrived that evening and spent a painstaking three hours untangling my hair before he could attempt to cut it. He later described the process as trying to escape quicksand. My hair was coming out in clumps, but he managed to fashion a somewhat acceptable style with the remnants of my formerly below-shoulder-length locks. I was surprisingly pleased with the outcome, considering I had never before mustered the courage to go for a significantly shorter haircut. It would have to suffice.
That night, I propped my phone up on the sink and FaceTimed my eldest daughter. Out of habit, I absentmindedly ran my fingers through my hair. It came out in my hand. I repeated the action, self-sabotaging until I resembled a sickly cancer patient. My once defined parting had widened, revealing my scalp. I had patchy tufts of hair. I pulled on a beanie and cried myself to sleep.
The next morning, I had to go to the hospital for a blood test. I asked a nurse if she could shave off the remaining hair. For a woman, having her head shaved is an act of submission. I kept my head bowed, avoiding eye contact with the fallen strands on the floor. I understand that some women embrace this as a fashion statement and look incredible, but that wasn’t me. I felt like every ounce of my femininity, my confidence, and my identity had been stripped away. I had transformed into someone else entirely.
I refused to look at myself in the mirror, and I didn’t allow myself to cry, but I felt an overwhelming sense of despair. I concealed my bald head from my husband and family, always ensuring it was covered. I despised the way I looked. It was a ridiculously vain concern considering the more pressing matters at hand and the medical hurdles I was facing, but the experience of being bald was truly traumatic for me. First, my eyelashes disappeared, then my eyebrows. I felt like an incomplete work of art. Like an alien.
It was only later in my treatment that I discovered the transformative power of wigs. I deliberately chose two wigs that were nothing like my previous hair, which had been light brown, heavily highlighted, and straight. One wig was short, choppy, and blond, while the other was a sleek auburn bob. I grew rather fond of them.
About eight weeks after completing my chemotherapy, my hair began to grow back. It sprouted like cress on a damp paper towel, soft like a newborn baby’s hair and spaced out. I kept this development hidden, but at night I would gently touch it in awe. The longer it grew, the curlier it became. It was grayish in color, but healthy and wavy. I felt a deep sense of gratitude and began to appreciate it. I still do. It’s not the same as my old hair, but then again, I am not the same person I used to be.
Living without such an essential part of my identity for an entire year taught me a valuable lesson: never rely solely on your physical appearance. However, to some extent, we all do. I can admit that I did. My well-being was intrinsically tied to my outward appearance. Stripping away the veneer and familiarity, not to mention the femininity, of who I once was proved to be incredibly destabilizing. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a complete stranger staring back at me. No hair, no eyelashes, no eyebrows. I despised what I saw, yet, as is human nature, I gradually adapted to the hand I had been dealt. There was no other choice.
I became accustomed to my new appearance because it’s impossible to complain about having a bad hair day when you have no hair at all. Ultimately, what matters most is being alive.
“Dancing With the Red Devil” by Sarah Standing is available from Headline (£20). To support the Guardian and the Observer, you can order your copy at guardianbookshop.com (delivery charges may apply).
Denial of responsibility! VigourTimes is an automatic aggregator of Global media. In each content, the hyperlink to the primary source is specified. All trademarks belong to their rightful owners, and all materials to their authors. For any complaint, please reach us at – [email protected]. We will take necessary action within 24 hours.
