I started chemotherapy in March of 2025, knowing that when my hair finally fell out during chemo wasn’t a question of if, but when. That thought lingered in the background of every treatment, every glance in the mirror, every quiet moment alone.
Hair loss is one of the most visible and deeply personal parts of the cancer journey, something so many patients brace for, yet never truly feel ready to face. The uncertainty made it heavier; there’s no set day it begins, no clear warning, just the quiet understanding that eventually, everything will change.
Aggressive chemotherapy stretched across six long months, the most intense plan offered. And honestly, it was no joke.
When people hear you’re starting chemo, one of the first things they think about is your hair. They imagine it happening right away, like the moment treatment begins, it all just starts falling out.
That wasn’t my experience.
Before cancer, I had long, dark brown hair, thick, familiar, a part of my identity for years. It was something I never really thought twice about, until I had to.
About a month before treatment started, my hairstylist, who is also one of my best friends and has been doing my hair for nearly twenty years, cut six inches off.
We both cried. Because it wasn’t really about hair.
It was about what was coming. That haircut was one of the first visible signs that life as I knew it was changing.
Waiting For It To Happen
Then chemo began.
Week after week, I showed up for treatment, and my hair stayed. Above all, I waited for the moment everyone talks about, that inevitable turning point.
But it didn’t come. Not in the first few weeks, or even in the first few months.
At some point, I let myself believe maybe I’d be the exception. I even had my friend color it while it was shorter, holding onto this quiet hope that I might somehow escape that part of it.
Maybe I wouldn’t lose it. Maybe something normal could still remain.
Cancer has a way of letting hope and denial sit side by side, convincing you, if only for a little while, that both could be true.
The Morning It Fell Out
In late June, I had something beautiful planned.
A close friend of mine had gone through a painful year after losing someone she loved. Her mom, sister, and I arranged a surprise for her: a miniature dachshund puppy.
What she didn’t know was there were two puppies.
One for her. One for me. They were littermates. Tiny, sweet, full of life.
That morning, all of a sudden before the surprise, I got in the shower and started washing my hair.
Then it happened. It came out in clumps. Not strands. CLUMPS.
I remember just standing there. Staring at what was in my hands.
Shocked. Angry. Heartbroken. Like, really?
I already didn’t ask to be in this club, and was doing everything treatment demanded of me. And now this?
People can say, “It’s only hair.” It wasn’t only hair. It was privacy, identity and femininity. It was one more personal withdrawal cancer wanted to take and I cried hard that day.
Then I got dressed and still hosted the puppy surprise.
She cried happy tears. We laughed. The room was full of joy, inside me was grief sitting quietly in the corner.
That’s how cancer can be. Joy and sorrow in the SAME room.
The Day My Head Was Shaved
The next day, my hairstylist was supposed to help me with what was left, but something came up.
So my boyfriend came over and shaved my head. He had music playing and a drink in his hand. He kept telling me it was going to be okay. And somehow, his calm steadied me. I thought it was going to destroy me.
Instead, we stood there together and looked.
He was bald too, which made us laugh. Honestly, it wasn’t as awful as I feared. But it was still devastating in its own way because I didn’t just have a shaved head. I had become someone I never imagined I would have to be.
What Hair Loss During Chemo Really Feels Like
People talk about losing hair like it’s a side effect. Like it belongs on a checklist. For me, it felt like mourning.
I wore wigs twice. I had two of them and never felt like myself in either one. I wore head coverings. I slept in them at night and I adapted because I had to.
But if I’m honest, I hated EVERY bit of it. Even now, I feel emotional when I think about it.
Growing Back
My hair has grown back now. It came in natural gray. And if I’m honest, seeing that was emotional too. Because cancer doesn’t just change your body during treatment. Sometimes it introduces you to a version of yourself you weren’t ready to meet.
This weekend, I’m getting it colored. Not because hair is everything but because I am ready to feel normal again.
But because after cancer, there comes a moment when you want something back. A little softness, familiarity and reflection in the mirror that feels like home.
Healing isn’t always grand. Sometimes healing looks like sitting in a salon chair, taking a breath, and saying:
I’m ready to feel like me again.
