Pretty in Pink – The Bald Frontier

Several years ago my husband and I were having a drink while waiting for our reservation. As we left the bar for our table I recognized a gentleman as we walked past. “I thought it was you,” he said. “I recognized your hair.” Seriously. Once I took a friend to my stylist – who has to be the best ever – and after gushing about my hair, she started working on my friend and told her she should probably take some vitamin supplements. My friend walked out of the salon with a great cut, but I wasn’t her bestie.

It’s estimated that in the United States we spend $100 billion each year on hair care. I did not make that up. Even if I win Mega Millions tonight I won’t even come close to that figure. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that before chemo treatments I stood in front of the mirror trying to imagine what I would look like bald. The only positive I could envision was losing the bushy eyebrows I had inherited from my fraternal grandmother; I’ve always been grateful she didn’t have a unibrow.

Before my first treatment I asked my stylist to give me a short do, so being bald wouldn’t be quite as shocking. Everybody liked the new look. Then, two weeks after my first chemo treatment, my hair started coming out in gobs. It was on my pillow and around my spot at the dinner table. When I showered, my hands came away covered in strands. It was like putting your hand in a cobweb-infested cubby hole. Wet cobwebs.

I called my stylist and asked if she would come shave my head because I couldn’t handle that sensation. She put me off the first time. Cancer is a scary thing. When she did come she reluctantly took an electric razor to my head. Then, when the stubble grossed me out, she shaved me with a razor and water. When I looked in the mirror, I honestly thought, I think out loud, “I look like a Star Trek alien.” I took a picture and texted it to my husband and my kids so they would be prepared when they saw me in person. They were all very polite when they gazed on that bald pate for the first time. Except for my then 2-year-old grandson who stared and said, “Nonna, why you got no hair?”

Every woman who goes through chemo treatments that cause hair loss has to make a choice: wigs, scarves, hats, bald? This isn’t easy, because our hair is part of our identity. So I had to make a choice that would be right for me. My hair dresser gave me a Jacqueline Smith wig. I am no Charlie’s Angel. Another friend brought me every scarf she ever wore around her leg when that was a thing. AND she had washed and ironed them all. I was so grateful. I tried them, but really I only ever figured out how to tie them under my chin. Not a good look for me. My sister brought me some of her scarves and hats. I just want to say that “One Size Fits All” is a lie. Apparently, hair makes a difference. I went out and bought about 6 adjustable baseball caps. I wore them everywhere.

One day, though, I looked in the mirror and asked myself, “Why?” What was I trying to hide? For me, it was a moment of revelation about who I am and what matters most to me. One in eight women will develop breast cancer, and for 85% of us it isn’t genetic. I was fighting this battle head on (!) with amazing support and unwavering faith. Maybe, if I could be comfortable being a bald woman, other women could find courage and support for their battles. So I went with the bald look. I smiled at the people I met and they smiled back. I answered questions about my cancer and got encouragement from other survivors that gave me strength. It was a new frontier for me. I’m glad I baldly went where God called me to go.