The sole thing that always made me feel beautiful was gone just in the span of a few days. It was a core part of both my identity and femininity. My hair. Since I was a child, I had long, thick, luscious, wavy brown hair with natural, never-dyed, blonde highlights.
At 23-years-old I sat at the doctor’s office and was told that I had cancer. Not just any cancer. A rare type of cancer that less than one in a million people get. There have only been 200 cases in the history of the disease. It’s a type of sarcoma called desmoplastic small round cell tumor. As vain as it sounds, the very first thought I had was not about my survival rate or course of treatment or stage. It was about my hair. Would I lose my hair? Would I not only feel sick, but would I also look sick?
The answer was yes. On my very first visit with my oncologist I learned I would need to go through extremely aggressive chemotherapy. I would certainly lose all my hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes. I felt my confidence run out the front door, my self-worth run out the side door, and isolation waiting in the room for the other two. I felt so alone because what woman in her 20s had to go through this? Most of them aren’t dealing with cancer or hair loss. It’s the decade that you’re supposed to feel the most young and beautiful, living life to the fullest and taking advantage of every moment. Now, my life was over in more ways than one.
After that, I was instantly in denial. I thought maybe I would be one of the lucky ones who wouldn’t lose their hair by chance. I quickly came back to my senses, and I looked into wearing a cap cooled to a certain temperature that can help prevent chemotherapy-induced hair loss, also known as cold capping. I was told by my doctor that it likely wouldn’t work due to the high risk of hair loss. Neither the infusion center nor the hospital had cold capping as an option. If I wanted to try, I would have to bring my own. I could bring my own cold cap to the infusion center but not the hospital due to the duration I would be there. So I gave up on that option.
There are a lot of things I’d never do if it wasn’t for my cancer. Cutting my hair 12 inches was one of them. As someone who always loved my long hair, I’d never want to see how short hair would look on me. Before I started treatment and lost my hair, I wanted to help someone else going through something similar feel more comfortable and confident. I knew how important my hair was to me, so what’s better than the gift of hair? I thought it would be nice to donate to a child since they are at such a vulnerable age, where they are developing their identities and learning what beauty means to them. Plus, they shouldn’t have to worry about problems like this. So I decided to donate my hair to Wigs for Kids, a nonprofit organization that has been serving children and providing wigs for those experiencing hair loss. I found an amazing hair stylist at The Palms Hair Studio in Pacific Beach, San Diego, who partnered with Wigs for Kids. I surprisingly liked my short hair. I felt like it made me look so much more mature and professional and even a little bit like a 90s hairdo.
I looked into my own wigs after that. Real hair wigs cost thousands of dollars. That was a lot in a time when my finances were so uncertain. I didn’t know what my income would look like, and I didn’t know how much my medical bills would total. I gave a wig, so I thought why not get a wig from a similar organization. I applied for one on a few nonprofit websites. I quickly heard back from an organization called Hair We Share, a family-owned nonprofit that provides custom-made human hair wigs free of charge to men, women, and children experiencing medical hair loss across the United States.
I was pleasantly shocked and tears ran down my face when I received my wig in the mail from them because it looked just like my own hair, everything from color, length, to texture. Some of my friends and family said they wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference if I didn’t tell them about my wig.
I had my first round of treatment and my second round two weeks later. That one was inpatient. I came into the hospital with a full head of hair, and by the time I left a few days later, I only had a few wispy baby hairs left. My hair would fall out in chunks, especially when I showered, brushed my hair, or ran my fingers through it. Hair covered my pillowcase, my bathroom, and the floor unlike I have ever seen before. I looked like a zombie, mainly bald with a few stragglers, or a corpse literally on their death bed. I knew I would lose my hair, just not that fast. I thought it would’ve taken at least a few chemotherapy sessions. And I didn’t think it would happen so rapidly. I thought it would happen slowly over the span of a few weeks or even a month. The chemotherapy wasn’t the hardest part of that hospital stay. It was the hair loss and feeling like I was weak and sick because of it.
The night I got back from the hospital I shaved my head. I couldn’t handle one more day looking the way I did. And then, I couldn’t recognize myself completely bald. I didn’t feel like myself anymore. Tears squirted out of my eyes and splashed down my cheeks. I felt like I was just looking at a bald man in the mirror. I felt like Nousha-nini, or newborn Nousha. Infant Nousha. Baby Nousha. I was fussy and needy all the time because of the effects of treatment and now I also physically looked like a baby with no hair. The little stubble felt uncomfortable against my pillowcase that night almost like how your legs feel against the sheets when your hair slightly grows in after shaving. It was so sensitive and felt so weird. I felt so exposed. I had no idea how I was going to do life with my new head.
I mourned my loss for a few days and then realized a few things. This was a fight for my life. My body was only able to perform essential functions, and as much as my hair was a part of me, it wasn’t essential for my survival. As cliche as it sounds, I realized that the internal is so much more important and makes me myself more than the external. My character, my personality, my morals, my values, my actions are what shape me and what really matters. Lastly, I realized the fun part — this is my opportunity to experiment. There are iconic women like Cynthia Erivo and Doja Cat who rocked a bald head. There were iconic characters on my favorite television shows who had to lose their hair to cancer, and they made it look fabulous. The first that came to my head was Samatha Jones from Sex and the City in season six.
I have options now. I can choose a bald head. On other days, I can wear my wig that looks like my hair. I can try to find affordable wigs that maybe even look different than my normal hair. Play around with that. I can wear so many different headscarves and bandanas and beanies and hats. I can wear big statement earrings. I can go crazy with my makeup, drawing on bold eyeliner or a red lip. There is so much more to beauty than my old hair, and even that will eventually grow back.
