I had only four glorious days with my bob before starting chemo. But even three weeks in, I still had the majority of my hair. (Although I spent hours inspecting my part in my bathroom mirror and was convinced it was growing wider. I even sent pictures to my little sister to confirm.) Then one terrible morning, it happened. A rat-sized chunk of my hair fell out in my hand during my weekly shampoo. I screamed for a while. I thought about jumping out of my window and then remembered my windows open only four inches, probably because of moments like this. Then I spent the rest of the day mourning the loss of both my dignity and my perfect haircut.
I don't know why it shocked me. I knew this moment would happen. And yet, somehow I had deluded myself into thinking that if I truly believed my hair wouldn't fall out, it wouldn't—which is why I failed to buy a wig in advance. So I went to work wearing a knit beanie and then later visited a wig store, where a woman shaved the little hair left on my head and sold me a lace-front wig. (Beyonce's is lace-front too, friends told me.) My long, straight, dark-haired wig made me uncomfortable, both physically (think tension headaches) and emotionally. I felt like a kid playing dress-up, a sick person disguised as the picture of health. But because I'd paid for it, I wore it religiously for a few weeks.
Then one afternoon at work, I finally had it. Who was I kidding? And what was the point? I tore the wig off my head and stuffed it into a drawer. It remained there long after I finished chemo, and instead I wore a gray cashmere cap my mom had bought me. Cozy and warm, it was exactly what I needed at that point. I wore it until I had enough hair to feel comfortable without it.
You might think that in the grand scheme of cancer and the requisite side effects of chemo—which, let me tell you, aren't pretty—hair seems like it should have been the least of my worries. I get that. But it's too easy for people (who often are not bald nor undergoing cancer treatment) to say, "Well, hair grows back." I know how hair works. Would you like to be bald for six months? Have you ever tried to grow your hair from scratch? Do you know how it feels to lay your smooth scalp on a cold pillow in the dead of winter?
All I wanted was hair. My hair, preferably chin-length. I dreamed about it three or four times a week. I'd wake up thinking I still had the Best Haircut of All Time and reach up to touch it, finding nothing there but bare skin. It's like the morning after a breakup: You feel fine, and then as your mind gets going, you remember something really horrible has happened. I also developed this weird, sad tic of moving my fingers in the air around my ears, as if I were tucking my hair behind them—like phantom hair syndrome.
