The hair that cancer gave me

“I love your hair. Seriously. You have the best hair!”

My coffee date has just joined me at a window table in Starbucks. This is our second meeting, the first being at a networking event. We don’t really know each other but like many women, we open conversations with compliments to put the other at ease.

“Is that your real hair?” she asks, eyes wide open and practically reaching out to stroke the strands.

Yes, it is.

“Is that your color?”

Yep.

“Is that curl natural? Has it always been like this?”

Um, yes. And no.

This is where things get tricky and I hesitate. My companion’s expression turns curious. Is my hair really natural or am I faking it?

The short answer is Yes, this is my real hair. Which is true but wasn’t always true. I hardly do anything with it, and yet it really is great hair. Long, lush and thick; cascades of curls and waves. The ends are naturally sun-kissed. I hear the actress Connie Britton’s hair has at least one blog dedicated to it, and its own Twitter handle. My hair is more modest, but no less worthy.

I look like I spend a lot of time and money on my hair. While I don’t, this hair did come at a high price. And it’s around this point of the conversation when I try to figure out if I come clean and tell her the truth: This is the hair that cancer gave me.

A few years ago I was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma. During chemotherapy, my hair was one of the first things to bail when the going got tough. After all the time and money I’ve spent shampooing, conditioning, gelling, moussing, cajoling and pleading with it, my hair, my shining glory fell right out of my head. It started slowly, sneaking out while I wasn’t looking. Once the initial hairs fell however, the rest followed quickly, like party guests who were just waiting for someone else to leave first. Before I knew it, I was vacuuming the bathroom floor.

Learning I would lose my hair during treatment was the first thing to cause me to cry. Pre-diagnosis, I endured weeks of appointments with more doctors than I remember, all trying to figure out what was causing the two lumps in my neck and the mass in my chest. I learned many doctors have no filter and simply think out loud, not realizing they’re terrorizing their patients with phrases like “hmm, aggressive cancer?” “spot on the lung” “might need to open up her chest to get tissue” and so on. Through all of that, I didn’t cry, not once. It wasn’t until my oncologist told me I’d lose my hair during chemotherapy that I broke down. To me this was one injustice too many. Suddenly nothing was fair and I cried like a little girl, getting all hiccupy and soaking my sleeves with tears while my doctor waited for me with a gentle smile.

My hair has always been my shield, my barometer for how good I feel about myself on any given day. Good hair days put a bounce in my step as I stride confidently out into the world. Bad hair days torpedo my self-esteem, making me want to go forgo the baseball cap and just crawl right back into bed. I’ve earned three degrees, am happily married and run a successful business but these morale-boosters are no match for a bad hair day.

Losing my hair during chemo was even worse. Instead of one bad hair day, I had months of no-hair days. It was like the Universe saying “I’ve decided it’s not enough to threaten your very life, knocking the wind out of you and making it so you’ll never feel safe ever again. I think I’ll take your hair too so you when you walk down the street, covering up your baldness with a scarf or not-entirely-believable wig, everyone will know there’s something really wrong with you.”

Every woman I met who lost their hair during treatment agreed that it was traumatic. Conversely, most men would say things like “Welcome to my world,” or “At least yours will grow back.”

I know I’m supposed to be grateful above all else that I didn’t die, that my health has returned and things are back to normal. If I’m being honest, though, I’m a tad grateful to cancer for giving me the hair I wanted, but couldn’t quite achieve on my own.

“Seriously, is that your real hair?” my companion asks again.

I smile at her, admiring her hair which is layered with auburn streaks that glow as the sun shines on her. I take a sip of my coffee and say:

Yes. It sure is.

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I wrote this in 2013, once my recovery was assured and my natural hair was in its glory. I’m dedicating it to Dennis Brannan, my hair guy, who has been with me through thick & thin, long-hair & no-hair.