Coming to Terms With Hair Loss After Chemotherapy

Amy Brewster describes her emotional journey and the challenges of adjusting to life without hair after undergoing chemotherapy.

Lately, I have been forgetting that I don't have hair. I involuntarily lift my fingers to my scalp to brush away loose strands, but instead my fingers touch a domed, smooth surface. Without my hair I feel naked and exposed. Whenever I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, which I avoid, I wonder who it is looking back at me. If I choose not to cover my head when I leave the house to run errands, will people stare at me?

I’ve always taken pride in my thick, plentiful hair. I feel a rush of nostalgia for my long-established hair habits; endless hours of styling, washing, curling, brushing, combing, rolling, coloring, cutting, teasing and twirling. As a teenager, I’d drag my body out of bed to sit for an hour at my dressing table, releasing the tortured blond strands from the orange juice cans they were rolled in, and massaging the aching dents left in my scalp, coaxing my ever-misbehaving hair to lie perfectly straight. 

When my hair was short, I anxiously waited for it to grow long and when it was long, I spent far too much time trying to control it, and when I finally decided to have it cut, I’d often stared horrified into the too wide salon mirror at a haircut I hadn’t asked for at all.

My grandma had lovely, thick hair. I have a picture of her as a young woman; her hair falling to her shoulders adorned by a large, white bow. I believe she passed her gorgeous locks to me.

I was told after the strong chemo I received that I would “likely” lose my hair. It didn’t begin to happen until I left the hospital. While in the shower washing my hair, I felt sick as I noticed the drain at my feet filled with twisted clumps of dark hair. I had been hoping that I was an exception.

But soon all that remained on my balding skull were long, die-hard, hold out strands, spouting tufts, in an arid landscape, like random homes abandoned after a tornado. 

My husband suggested going to the salon in the hospital that caters to the newly bald. I reluctantly agreed. We entered a room made to look like a real salon, except this one had many plastic molds of heads from the neck up with multicolored wigs, some curling and short, and some straight and shoulder length. 

The woman inside greeted us warmly and invited me to sit in the salon chair. I stood looking at the chair and the huge, long mirror, and I began to feel weak. I sat in the chair, took one look at the wigs on either side, jumped from the chair and said, “I can’t do this!” The lady gently placed her hand on my shoulder.

“It’s OK. Come back whenever you’re ready or not at all.” I chose not at all.

Now, my hairbrushes lie idle in the top drawer of my bathroom vanity. I like to think they comfort each other, but I wonder if they feel useless these days. I think I will have a little "pep" talk with them today. I’ll take each one by the handle and tell them to "stay positive and hopeful" and not "give in to fear." Just appreciate each day of their "mini vacation.”

I’ll let them know they will be needed in the future and to prove it, I will show them the little bit of peach fuzz sprouting through the shiny venue of my baldness. Meanwhile, while they lie waiting, I look in the mirror and am pleasantly surprised at how I look without hair. I admire the shape of my skull and think to myself, this is not bad at all.

This story was written and submitted by Amy Brewster. The article reflects the views of Amy Brewster and not of CURE. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

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