Here's What Happened After I Lost All My Hair

If you were to meet me on the street today, you'd have no idea what happened to me. You'd see my long, brown hair – wavy and wind-dried by the Southern California breeze. You'd probably think that my hair had always been there. And like most people, you probably see hair as an expression of oneself – a vital yet remarkably malleable testament to our character.

You might even think I don't pay it much thought (since it sits in a tangled bun atop my head.) But soon, I'd let you know – when I knew you you well enough to tell you – that my hair took over a decade to grow back, and that it's as precious to me as my own life.

I'd wait to see if you could cope with that fact without pitying me before I told you the rest, that the process of growing it back was even more revelatory than the process of losing it. Because I know that once I tell you my story, you won't look at your own hair – or your own life – the same way again.

I was diagnosed with an advanced form of lymphoma at 17. It had spread throughout my body and even into my bones. I was treated at Cedar Sinai Medical Center, where I tried an experimental chemo, one tested only a few times before. I trusted my doctor, but it was a risky move – though much less risky than wasting time looking for any other form of treatment.

"Will I lose my hair?" I asked him, since the possibility of hair loss was the only part of chemo I actually knew anything about. I was so young.

"You might," he said. "Some people do, some people don't. But it's alright if you lose your hair."

He smiled. He didn't seem sad for me. And I learned that he was right: It was okay if I lost my hair, if I didn't lose my life.

As I went through treatment and my hair began to fall out, I woke up everyday with more hair covering my pillow. Through this, I actually grew less attached to it. One day, it got to be a bigger burden to have the last bits of hair at all, because it made me look sicker than I was. Then, when I realized that cancer was taking away my hair and all of my confidence, I felt as if I was losing my personal power.

[pullquote align="C"]When I realized that cancer was taking my confidence along with my hair, I felt as if I was losing my personal power. [/pullquote]​

So I took my confidence back and I shaved my head. To be honest, I first shaved it into a mohawk, just to see how that would feel. Then I shaved it into a cul-de-sac hair style, like that of an old man on a golf course. Then I put a band-aid on the top of my head as if I'd bonked myself opening a cupboard. The look matched my grandfather's; he always had a band-aid on his head from one wound or another – a charmingly consistent part of his look.

I showed my grandfather – I've ever seen him laugh so hard. We took pictures together with our matching hair cuts and band-aids. Laughing soothed my fears of powerlessness; it was another way in which I could assert control over my experience and my narrative, and what I wanted this experience to be. I had always forbidden anyone from acting as if my cancer was a tragedy. Now I was proving it could be a comedy.

In truth, I liked being bald. I liked all the different wigs in red, blonde, black and brown. I liked my hairless head in the afternoon sunshine. I liked the way it felt when I woke up on a crisp pillow. I liked the shower water tickling the top of my head.

[pullquote align="C"]I liked being bald. I liked all the different wigs in red, blonde, black and brown. I liked my hairless head in the afternoon sunshine.[/pullquote]​

But when treatment ended, I realized it would take a long time to go back to normal – my hair and everything else.

When I finished chemo, it was a week before my 18^th birthday. I went back home, graduated high school and attended my prom, all while still looking like a cancer patient.

Growing back the hair wasn't near as fun as losing it. It grew so slowly and in such a thin volume that it made me feel worse than being bald. I compared myself to other girls, glossing over the fact that my thin, short hair was actually proof of a miracle.

I spent all my money on extensions, wigs, and anything else I thought could make me look like a normal woman again. The truth was, I wasn't normal. I never would be.

But hat made me even more miserable was the difference between bald me and the healthy me: bald, sick me had the strength to realize she could be happy with or without hair. Healthy me just wanted to fit in, as if all her power lied in the opinions of others. I had forgotten my ability to decide how I felt about myself and where my worth and beauty came from. And it definitely couldn't come from extensions or wigs.

My hair grew back over the years, mostly as I navigated my 20s through college, relationships, and different cities. It went from shoulder length bobs to mermaid waves down my back. I tried every color and every cut, because I liked the ritual of it. And today, nearing my 30's, it is long and healthy and as close to it's natural color as I can get it.

Now that I have the long hair I thought I wanted so badly at 18, it's not nearly as important to me. In fact, now that it's here, I feel like it's sort silly for me to care at all. There are days I'm tempted to cut it all off, to remind myself of that strong, brave girl who knew that – hair or not – she was courageous and beautiful. She knew her beauty came from some place much more significant than her hair.

I don't cut it, though. I just remember how magical it is to still be alive. And instead of comparing myself to other women, I compare myself to the best me possible.