The Oncologist told me I’d be losing my hair once treatment starts. It wasn’t something I wanted to hear. My hair has always felt like my life force….my own version of Samson’s strength…..and imagining myself without it felt devastating.
But after the initial sting, I did what I’ve been doing with everything lately, I gathered myself, and figured out how to be prepared. My husband and I visited a local wig shop, a world I never imagined I’d step into. It was a small hair salon with a well-lit mirror and two chairs.
A row of wigs lined a shelf from different colors, length, and style. Faux hair crafted to meet a woman at one of the most vulnerable moments of her life, offering her a soft shield as perhaps toxic chemicals enter her bloodstream, destroying sick cells along with everything else in their path. It struck me that behind every wig is someone’s battle, someone’s story. Mine will soon join them.
The shop owner, kind enough to come in on a Sunday, greeted me warmly. She studied me for barely a second before saying, “You’re definitely a 1.” I blinked in confusion until she explained the color scale: 1 is the darkest, 60 is pure white. I had no idea hair shades were cataloged so clinically.
She brought out boxes from another room…with shoulder-length styles, bangs, layered cuts and taught me how to place a wig on properly. Find the side tabs, line up the edges, lift them by the strands, not by dragging the lace. She said it as if she were training me to handle something sacred and maybe she was.
Then came the eyebrow conversation. I hadn’t even thought about that. “Once your hairline goes, remember it’s four finger-widths from your brows,” she said. “And if your eyebrows thin, you’ll want to fill them in, otherwise the wig won’t look right.”
Makeup has never been part of my life. She gently showed me a small box of powders, explaining stencils and shading, another skill I never expected to need.
In the end, I chose two wigs, one short with bangs for convenience, and one long…. closer to how I look now, for comfort. My husband nodded with that steady approval he gives when he knows I need reassurance.
We left with instructions on cleaning, brushing, storage… an entire new chapter I hadn’t planned on spending my weekend learning. I imagine countless women have walked this same path, each one wondering, as I did, how did I get here? The mind searches for reasons. Maybe it was the few years I smoked to survive night shifts. Maybe it was my old diet, the chemicals in my workplace, or simply the randomness of biology. I’ll probably never know. What I do know is this, I’m here now. It was caught early.
My Gobi March registration has been deferred to 2027. The race director responded with kindness and understanding. I look forward to crossing that finish line someday, dust-covered, exhausted, transformed with my long black hair tied back. But first, I must prepare… mentally. One step at a time.
Journaling was Recommended 