Own It.

When I was first diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer, I was forty years old with a daughter in kindergarten and a son in second grade.  A stage 2 cancer diagnosis usually indicates the cancer has spread from the original tumor site to another part of the body. At that time, metastasized breast cancer in a younger patient meant that chemotherapy was part of the treatment protocol. Clarity of what matters most comes into sharp focus after a diagnosis of cancer. My main goal was to survive long enough to see my children through to adulthood.  Killing the cancer cells in my body would require a team of experienced doctors and a researched-based plan of attack.  Many important decisions needed to be made along the way.   What to do about my hair loss wasn’t one of those decisions.

Within the first two cycles of infusion, cancer patients must decide whether or not to shave their heads.  If left unshaved, their hair will fall out slowly over the duration of the treatment. Complete hair loss was a given. Early on in my diagnosis, I remember many women expressing the loss of hair as being one of the most dramatic side-effects of chemo. They felt less feminine, less attractive. Given the whirlwind of appointments, tests, and surgeries, losing my hair was of minimal concern. 

I made an appointment at a hair salon that specialized in shaving cancer patients’ heads. If I was going to go bald, I wanted to own it.  I wanted to enjoy the freedom from hair maintenance. On the day of my appointment, my stylist escorted my husband and me to a private room.  He snapped on a smock, turned on his electric clippers and began the slow process of removing my shoulder length hair in long rows from front to back like a lawnmower cutting an overgrown lawn.  I watched in the mirror, not afraid or sad, just curious. What would I look like without hair? Would my head look huge? Would my ears stick out? Would my nose seem extra big?

By the end, my blond hair covered the tiled floor, and to my surprise, my hairless head looked just fine without my golden locks. As my husband and I walked to our car after the appointment, I told him that I understood why men liked buzz cuts.  The cool mid March air blew across the exposed crown of my head, and I found the new experience stimulating and refreshing. I couldn’t stop rubbing the downy hair follicles much like when my tongue darted back and forth across the smoothness of my front teeth after my braces had been removed.Screen Shot 2019-03-13 at 10.20.06 PM

Eventually, I lost all of my hair, including my eyebrows and eyelashes. I didn’t try to conceal my hair loss with scarves or silly hats.  I loved the boldness of being so naked and exposed. In addition, it was my way of saying, I don’t buy into society’s objectification of the female body.  The beauty of my body lies in its resilience and tolerance to endure this hellish treatment.

This year, thirteen years after my initial diagnosis, my youngest daughter is a freshman in college.  My heart is full with gratitude. I am blessed by the small beautiful moments and the big milestones my life has gifted me.

I don’t miss much about the months I endured chemotherapy and radiation treatments, but every now and then, I do miss my shaved head and the boldness it instilled in me to Own It!


15 thoughts on “Own It.

  1. Three years ago I had brain surgery and had my head shaved for it. Not exactly the same, but I remember feeling the same way. I felt so proud of what I’d endured I never even wore so many of the hats, etc. I’d gotten ahead of time. Actually, I was able to pass them on just this week to a sister of a friend who has cancer…many with tags still on. I really related to this line: “I don’t buy into society’s objectification of the female body. The beauty of my body lies in its resilience and tolerance to endure this hellish treatment.” Thank you for sharing your story and way to go for BEATING IT!!! Courage exemplified!


  2. Love this. I remember my friend’s head shaving party after her diagnosis. She looked beautiful with her hair and without – and beauty wasn’t even the point. I’m so grateful to still have my friend, and even though I’m just meeting you through this slice, I’m grateful you beat it too! Thanks for sharing.


  3. Loooved this post.

    “I loved the boldness of being so naked and exposed.”

    I love raw, too. It’s like wearing your soul on the outside on a misty morning.

    Printing this post and keeping it nearby, thank you!


  4. I love this post so very much. You are a beautiful woman on the outside (the shaved head rocks, btw) but more importantly, you are a powerful force of nature on the inside. I count myself very lucky to be your friend xo

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Wow! Your telling of this profound time in your life captures what you describe in, “Clarity of what matters most comes into sharp focus.” Reading this is one of many times I am in awe of your bold strength and vitality. Your kids, for whom you were determined to recover, are so lucky to have a kickass mom like you.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. I am blown away by this piece. You show so much courage and resilience, dealing with the effects of the cancer head on! There are so many beautiful lines, but the one that I admire the most is: “I loved the boldness of being so naked and exposed”. (I admire it, because I can’t imagine myself reacting that way.)


  7. As I venture down the rabbit hole of your brilliant posts, I am forever in awe of your strength and resilience. This post is bold and beautifully crafted, a mirror image of you. A reminder to own it wherever we go.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s