Rock'n the Bald: What I Found When Chemo Took My Hair

How It Went

After six rounds of chemo, I stepped into the salon ready to shave my head, except "ready" is a generous way to put it. More like scared and anxious, but it was finally time - I put this off as long as I could (related content: Chemo Hair Loss). I'd kept busy all day to distract myself from the fact that I'd soon be reluctantly bald. But the minute I saw my stylist the tears were unstoppable. Thankfully, we scheduled the appointment to avoid an audience, other than the badass crew in town that day - my emotional support humans.

When the buzzing started, my stylist handed me the clippers to make the symbolic first swipe. I managed one shaky pass along the side of my head, instantly handing the clippers back - my bravery had its limits. She spun my chair away from the mirror, sparing me from watching my hair hit the floor. With each swipe she made afterward, my crew unleashed an orchestra of hilarious commentary, emotional encouragement and nervous energy.

By the time it was all over (10 minutes, tops because my stylist is a speed-shaving ninja), I couldn’t wait any longer to see my new look. When she spun me around, I remember thinking, “oh thank god I’m not a cone head!” Relief washed over me - it wasn’t so bad, and I was still me. What followed was ceremonial - everyone rubbed my head like a good luck charm, and we made a toast to this milestone in the journey.

Photos: Scenes from the day I shaved my head.

The Social Experiment

Andy and I had a date night three days after the shave - my first official social debut as a nearly bald woman. It was cold out, so I wore a hat, but once we settled at our table, I pulled it off. Immediately, I scanned the room, searching faces for reactions. A few glanced my way, but there was no shock or judgment - just normal, fleeting curiosity. Still, I couldn't shake the self-conscious feeling, wondering what they thought, and spiraling: why did I care?

Then came the moment that changed everything.

On my way back from the bathroom, a young woman in her mid to late 20s at the bar practically jumped from her seat to stop me. “I really love your style,” she said sincerely, eyes locking on my freshly shaved head. Did she think I was making a bold statement? Did she sense I had no choice, that cancer was calling the shots? Honestly, I have no clue, but none of it mattered. Her deliberate kindness was precisely the spark I needed to embrace the look.

For the rest of dinner, I couldn't have cared less about who stared or why. And from that moment forward, I held my shaved head high, reminded by a complete stranger of the power and control I still held within me. It would only ever be as awkward as I allowed it to be.

The Weird and Awkward Moments

While I embraced the bald look, there were still a few moments that caught me off guard. Seeing myself with no hair on a Zoom call was jarring, like, "Who invited Mr. Clean to the all-hands team meeting?" Occasionally, my reflection in store windows or the car rear view mirror surprised me - who was that bald woman staring back? Hosting a seven-year-old's birthday party with twenty curious little faces (and their parents) focused intently on my head, or arriving late to a crowded high school parent meeting and feeling hundreds of eyes track me as I took the last available seat at the front of the room. These occasional instances of self-consciousness popped up unexpectedly.

But they were fleeting moments in an otherwise confident journey.

At home, reactions were refreshingly simple. Andy loved my new look, showering compliments like candy on Halloween—almost annoyingly so (but really, don’t stop - keep ‘em coming, babe!). My teenagers couldn’t have cared less; life went on unchanged - carpools happened, friends came over, and no embarrassment ensued. In fact, one of my teens’ friends even said my look was “fire,” which I’m pretty sure is good though I’m probably too old to know for sure. Whenever self-consciousness crept in, my wise-beyond-her-years seven-year-old would confidently declare, “Mom, who cares what people think? It’s just who you are.” Mic drop. I wish I could bottle that level of confidence!

At my youngest child’s “gal-entine’s” sleep-over, one of her friends gave my bald head the ultimate side-eye. When I gently asked if it was weird or scary, she nodded shyly. Cue spontaneous dress-up dance party: they rocked Disney Descendant wigs and costumes, and I paraded through my own wig collection - awkwardness diffused.

Left-to-right: Natural human hair wig, synthetic wig, no wig.

Wiggn’ Out

Speaking of wigs, I splurged on two beauties (one synthetic, one real human hair), spending thousands of dollars, but barely wore them. The one exception was Thanksgiving dinner at home, because why not? But it was itchy and hot, and it didn’t feel like me. From then on, the wigs mostly just stared at me from their stands, reminders of the hair journey I never took and quietly mocking me for the money spent.

Practicalities: How to Rock the Bald and It’s Hidden Challenges

Here’s what they don’t tell you about the bald life: you save a fortune on hair products but invest heavily in scalp care and make-up.

Chemo ruthlessly damages your hair follicles, making scalp care a thing. My new routine? Simple: turmeric bar soap, soothing deep moisturizers, and my secret indulgence - a soft baby brush (yes, really). Those tiny bristles soothing my tender scalp felt like heaven. I finally understood why my babies were so zen after their bath time.

With hair gone, eyebrows took center stage. Over the past several months, I became a brow apprentice, investing in stamps, pencils, and more YouTube tutorials than I care to admit. There were mishaps, including accidentally using liquid eyeliner on my brows (yes, horrifying - I blame three days of insomnia on that one). I didn't lose all of my brows - they significantly thinned, but enough remained that I had a fighting chance to master the art of the full brow.

Photos: Eyebrows (and lashes) before (on the left) and after (on the right) sixteen rounds of chemo.

Mascara has always been my “stranded-on-a-desert-island” makeup essential - the one thing I'd never ditch. But chemo gave me chronic dry eyes that made my favorite cosmetic a total nightmare (raccoon eyes anyone?). Waterproof mascara became mandatory, yet harsh on lashes already fragile from treatment. Every night became a delicate ritual to preserve my thinning lashes. Thankfully, my panic-purchased fake lashes remained unused in a drawer.

Sweat was another hidden challenge - those thin brows weren't stopping the sweat during chemo-induced menopause hot flashes. Suddenly, sweat streamed down, washing away my carefully penciled brows, instantly turning me into a hot mess. Waterproof products, setting sprays and blotting paper quickly became essentials.

Earrings became the finishing touch I couldn’t skip. Once I lost my hair, my go-to gold hoops suddenly screamed pirate vibes, and I couldn't unsee it. So, I quickly amassed a collection of sparkly studs and statement pieces. Earrings became my new hair, helping me feel less like a "sickly cancer patient" and more like me. Bonus: many of my favorite jewelry brands I purchased from support breast cancer charities, turning each purchase into retail therapy with a purpose. Win-win!

Chia Pet Problems

What I didn’t expect was for my hair to try growing back during chemo. It popped back just enough to require a fresh shave every two to three weeks. But it makes sense - chemo runs in cycles, and as my body recovered between infusions, the side effects would ease, and I’d start to feel stronger. Along with that, my hair would make a comeback - just in time for the next round of Taxol or AC to knock it out again. By the end, I was pretty skilled with clippers, though comedic mishaps did happen (mostly hidden, thank goodness).

Now, post-chemo, I'm at a crossroads I never saw coming.

Initially filled with anxiety and fear, shaving my head became unexpectedly liberating. I kind of love the power and freedom that came with being bald. Now, I genuinely consider whether to regrow it at all - realizing a shaved head could actually be my choice. Just look at others who rock the bald - Jada Pinkett Smith, Demi Moore, Natalie Portman, Ayanna Pressley, Aziza Shuler, even my aunt. I've navigated awkwardness, prejudices, and insecurities, standing empowered by this unexpected decision.

Yet, I’m going for it - I will grow it back! And with that choice a whole new set of questions: How fast will it grow? Curly or straight? What awkward re-growth stages will I face? Who knows? But, armed with collagen supplements, protein powder, power greens and more Virtue hair regrowth products than I know what to do with, here’s what I do know:

It was never about the hair. It was always about me.

So here I go, facing another new chapter of unexpected outcomes (and potentially a lot of bad hair days!).