Chemo Hair, Don’t Care… Actually, I Do

So, here’s the thing everyone asks when you start chemo: Are you going to lose your hair? (Spoiler alert: yes, eventually.) 99.9% of patients on my treatment regime lose their hair. Right after that comes: Will you show off the bald head or wear a wig? Those are the only two options. Everyone seems to understand how emotional it will be, but do they really know how messy the whole chemo hair loss process is?

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

When I got my diagnosis, Andy immediately went into research mode, like he always does. We got a lot of advice—some solid, like cutting my hair short before it started falling out, and some… not so much. Like, now it’ll be faster to get ready in the morning with one less thing to do! People said I’d lose my hair between infusions two and three. Others told me to sleep with a cap to catch the loose strands. And don’t even get me started on the blow-drying. (I only kinda followed that one.)

Despite all the prep, my hair didn’t actually start falling out until week four, right at the beginning of Cycle 2. For a few days, I felt like a unicorn, beginning to believe I might be the 0.01% that would sail through this with a full head of hair. Nope. And, as a bonus for thinking so ridiculously, chemo-induced menopause kicked in the same week (but that’s a whole other saga). When the hair finally started going, it really went for it.

Picture this: I’m in the shower, and clumps of hair are just coming out. Not a few strands—clumps. I’d brush my hair, and more would fall out. Even touching it sent strands flying into my food, my drink, all over the floor—basically everywhere but on my head. It was gross. I’m pretty sure there’s still a permanent piece of hair stuck in the back of my throat, and honestly, that’s been the most annoying part.

Hair Loss at 4 Weeks

Hair Loss at 4 Weeks 4 Days

Hair Loss at 5 Weeks

Images from Left to Right: Non-cumulative hair loss in one week across eight days.

Shaving My Head: The Final Countdown

As my hair got drier and more brittle, I started adjusting. I washed it less, maybe once every four days. I kept it in a ponytail most of the time, just to stop it from falling out everywhere. My scalp? It felt like it had a sunburn—sore and sensitive in the worst way. And then came the real question: When do I shave my head?

This is not a decision anyone wants to make. It’s not something you do voluntarily, but there I was, trying to decide: Before or after my big client meeting? Before or after the Halloween party at my kid’s school? Before or after the first woman is elected into office as president? (Every vote counts; go vote!) Once I shave it, people will know I’m sick. They’ll look at me. They’ll stare. They’ll pity me. Definitely not the attention I’m after.

As the day gets closer, I’ve caught myself trying to stay strong, but some moments hit harder than others. My kids have been asking questions, and I try to keep it light (yes, I'll indulge everyone's fantasies and be a pirate for Halloween), but there’s always that feeling in the back of my mind, like I’m losing part of myself. It’s strange, because it’s just hair, right? But it’s still me.

The reality is, I’m shaving my head this week. It’s happening whether I’m ready or not. Gulp.

But deciding when is only the first step. The how and where? Those are whole new layers. Some people do it at home, with a loved one handling the clippers. Nope, not me. I’m calling in my stylist, Lindsay. She’s pure sunshine—funny, upbeat, and the positive energy I need to get through this. For something this emotional, I’m counting on her vibe to help me cope. In fact, my colorist Paige and esthetician Janine also have been amazing these past few months—supporting me through the trim of the first 8 inches of hair for my “halfway there” look, and a final wax appointment.

Images from Left to Right: Before and after eight inches of length cut-off.

We’re doing it at the salon because my family wants to be there, and a few friends are tagging along too. I can picture most of it—the clippers, the jokes, the hugs. But what I can’t picture? Walking out of that salon bald. That’s the part that scares me most.

Andy’s been my rock through all of this—always two steps ahead with a pep talk (and one step behind me with a vacuum). My friends? They’ve already texted me loads of jokes about bald caps (the pink one really does make me look like a penis). I’m grateful to have them with me for what’s sure to be an emotionally draining day.

Head Scarves: A New Take on Fall Fashion This Season

I’ll probably throw on a scarf to cover up on the big day. The weather will be cold, and I’ll experience the sensation of brisk air on a bald head for the first time. I’m bracing for all the weird new sensations—wind on my scalp, feeling raindrops and snow without hair, and probably regretting not packing a hat for the next school run. I’ll half expect to feel like a walking antenna. Oh, and I’ve already bought a couple of wigs—one synthetic, one human hair. That adventure? That one definitely deserve its own 800-word blog post.

But let’s be real: I’m definitely going to cry. I’m tearing up just writing this, and there’s not even a clipper in sight yet. Shaving my head feels like the moment this battle really becomes visible. It’s no longer just something happening inside me; now the world will see it, too. In a way, it’s a scary step, and while some people tell me to own this part of the fight, it’s harder than it looks.

Wish me luck!