I shaved my head

The reason why, and what it's been like in the month since

It was my first thought upon hearing the awful news. If she loses her hair, I’m gonna shave mine off, too. It was more of a physical reaction than a conscious thought, a desperate attempt to do something, of wanting to help, needing to take some of the burden off her.
It was a Saturday in late November when our daughter told us that she had been diagnosed with cancer. You never react like you think you would when you receive bad news: I imagined that I would ask a million questions, give hugs, and dispense words of comfort and strength—but instead I barely knew what to say. Both my husband and I were struck dumb. Besides, the grandkids were clamouring for attention, and the Christmas tree we’d brought was still tied to our truck, waiting to be carried in and decorated. So that’s what we did: we decorated the tree, played with the kids, and in between asked hushed, anguished questions about treatment options, prognosis, and how do you feel? Do the kids know? Are you okay?

Once at home, it truly sank in. Rich sank into a stupor of worry. I had to suppress the urge to grab every doctor I work with by the lapels and make them gurantee me that she would be fine. We were in the figurative waiting room of the process: waiting for her surgery, waiting for more details, waiting to find out if it had spread or not.

While we spent that Christmas season in waiting purgatory, I distracted myself by imagining what it would be like to have no hair. “It’s just hair”, people always say when someone is facing losing it due to chemo. “It will grow back.”
Well, if it’s just hair, why don’t you cut yours off then? I often think to myself when I hear that phrase. I know that it’s well-meaning, but it minimizes the important role hair plays. Hair serves as security blanket, hiding place, a tool to fit in or stand out. It makes us feel beautiful, younger, sexy. I’ve had bangs since I grew my hair out twelve years ago, and the thought that scared me the most was that my forehead would be on display.
Foreheads have changed a lot since I last displayed mine: they were now expected to be smooth, unlined, and shiny. Mine has lines, some skin discolouration, and I still can’t shake the comment my mom made to me more than 30 years ago that my forehead is “too big”. What would it feel like to have no hair to hide my imperfect forehead behind?

I was about to find out.

My daughter went first. I watched as her long, thick hair fell to the floor, creating a halo around her feet. She has a beautiful face and a small, perfectly shaped head, and with each strand that was shaved off she looked more like a gorgeous child. Uh-oh, I thought to myself. I’m gonna look hideous in comparison. But there was no going back now.

It was done in ten minutes. My head felt strangely light, and I was overcome with a giddy sense of pride and disbelief. “You have a great hairline!” one daughter exclaimed. “And a nicely shaped head,” the other added kindly.
”Do you want to see it?” the third one asked. We were sitting in the kitchen, and there wasn’t a mirror. I hadn’t seen myself yet.

I walked into the bedroom, more curious than anxious. I took a deep breath, and then I stepped in front of the mirror.
There it was—my face on full display. A 45-year old face with wrinkles, melasma, freckles, droopy eyelids, a biggish forehead, probably some chin hair I missed that morning, not a speck of make-up, and pretty decent skin. I breathed out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t that bad. I could live with that face.

I went back into the kitchen and we hugged for a long time.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“You’re welcome,” I whispered back. “You’re much more important to me than hair.”
It was true. This had been the easiest decision of my life.

On the way home I kept touching my head and looking in the rearview mirror. Fuck, it felt and looked weird. But I was sure I would get used to it, because humans are remarkably adaptive. I now turned my attention to the most pressing question: what would people say?

It bugged me that this was something I still worried about. I’ve been doing extensive work on myself to shed the weight of other people’s expectations, yet here I was, fretting about their opinion. “It doesn’t matter what anybody else says,” I muttered to myself like a mantra. “It’s my body, my choice. It’s not my duty to look appealing to others.” The reminders helped. Besides, you know what they say, don’t you? “It’s just hair. It will grow back.”

The first week I felt like a very bright spotlight was trained on me. I wore a toque when I was out and about, convinced people would be staring at me if I dared to show up in the world with no hair. I wondered if it would be weird if I showed up at work with a hat, and then was annoyed with myself for caring so much.
By lucky coincidence I had almost a week off before I had to go back to work. I had taken a few days vacation to do some work around the house, and it gave me the opportunity to soft-launch my new (lack of) hair to friends and family first.

Day 1, still feeling self-conscious

My husband loves it. Truly, honestly loves it. He thinks it’s badass, and that it shows off the face he happens to adore.

Here are some other reactions:

“What did you do?!” Eyes wide open in shock/incomprehension/judgment. Variations: “You had such nice hair!” “What happened?!” Not my favourite.

“You cut your hair.” Neutral, stating the obvious, giving me the chance to explain if I want to. Perfect.

“I love it!” Variations: “It suits you!” “You look great!” “I shaved my head as well [back in high school] [when I was younger].” “You can pull it off.” Kind, encouraging, supportive. The very best reaction.

Many people have said nothing, obviously, which is another perfect reaction. Not commenting on someone’s appearance is always a safe bet.

After that first week of adjusting to it, I’m now genuinely loving it. Doing something a bit outrageous is so empowering! Historically, women’s hair has often been cut off as punishment or humiliation. Doing it out of your own free will, either as a sign of support, to take a stance against the expectation of female beauty, or simply because you feel like it, is liberating. Not to mention how incredibly easy it is! Washing takes only a moment, and one rub with the towel dries it immediately.

Before, I’ve always fussed with my bangs, combing them a dozen times a day, arranging and re-arranging them frequently. I also have a swirl at the back of my head that makes it look like I have a bald spot, and that’s been the bane of my existence for as long as I can remember. Whenever I wore my hair down I would check several times throughout the day if it was visible, and one of the main reasons that I almost always had my hair in a ponytail or bun was because it hid that swirl.

The swirl

The swirl is still visible, but I’ve made peace with it. There is no other option, because I can’t hide it anymore, and there’s no point in agonizing about something you can’t change.

In fact, if I were to summarize what this experience feels like, I could do it in one word: free.

I’m no longer hiding—not my swirl, forehead, or anything else about myself. At 45, I feel more at peace with myself than at any other point in my life.

Shaving my head has been the most liberating thing I’ve ever done for myself.