ANYTHING but the HAIR!!

I swore I would never complain about losing my hair.

So, picture this: you get hit with the C-word bomb. Your brain tries to wrap itself around the diagnosis, and everyone around you starts talking about courage, battle plans, and positive thinking. But honestly? That is not the first thing that popped into my head. Nope. My very first thought was this: “Please, please do not let me go bald.”

Superficial? Maybe. Selfish? Possibly. But in that raw moment of shock and fear, what I cared about most was my hair—my luscious, thick, curly crown. My identity. My armor. And I know I am not alone in that. Who would not want to cling to the last bit of normalcy when everything else feels like it is falling apart?

I should probably be patting myself on the back right now. I have dodged most of the major health hurdles so far. My labs look great. My body, for the most part, is holding up. I am not nauseous around the clock. I am tolerating chemo and radiation like a reluctant champ. But there is still this persistent, nagging voice in my head that keeps circling back to one ridiculous, yet very real worry: my hair.

Hair loss. Thinning. Bald spots. The dreaded disappearing act that comes with the territory when you are dealing with cancer. I know it sounds small in comparison to the weight of a brain cancer diagnosis, but I think anyone going through this would understand. When you lose your hair, you lose a piece of yourself. It is not just a cosmetic change—it is a psychological one.

When I was a kid, I used to hate my curls. I saw them as wild, unmanageable, and inconvenient. I envied the girls with smooth ponytails or stick-straight strands. I would beg for relaxers and flat irons. My curls were my nemesis. Fast forward to today, and I am practically making offerings to the hair gods, asking—no, pleading—to let me keep what I once cursed.

What is it about hair that feels so personal? Maybe it is because hair tells a story. The style, the color, the shape—it all reflects a version of ourselves we want the world to see. It is a silent form of expression, and for many of us, it is part of how we move through the world with confidence. So when cancer threatens to take it, it feels like another invasion. One more thing the disease gets to decide for you.

And let me be honest, this process is full of contradictions. I am grateful for the good results, grateful that I am responding to treatment, grateful that the side effects are manageable. And yet, in the middle of all that gratitude, I still find room to be upset about my appearance. Some people may say that is vanity. But to me, it is part of staying grounded in who I am. I want to be able to look in the mirror and recognize myself—not just the warrior, not just the patient—but the version of me who existed before cancer tried to take over.

Hair, in its own strange way, is hope. It is a thread—no pun intended—back to life as I knew it. A life where I fussed over hairstyles, cursed the frizz, experimented with color, and spent way too much money on leave-in conditioner. I miss that. I miss being able to worry about trivial things. Cancer steals so many choices, and sometimes, the little ones mean the most.

I have had friends who shaved their heads the moment they knew chemo was on the horizon. They took control before cancer could. I admire that strength. I do. But I am not there yet. I am still clinging to my strands, still parting my hair to hide thinning patches, still pretending the pile in the shower drain is totally normal. I know what is coming, but I am not ready to let go just yet.

Some days I joke about it. I call it my "hair vanishing act" like it is some kind of magic trick. Other days, I want to cry when I catch a glimpse of my scalp peeking through. And sometimes, I just sit in silence, running my fingers through what is left, remembering how much of my identity used to be wrapped up in these strands.

Still, humor has been my saving grace through all of this. It is strange how cancer can bring out the dark comedy in life. I find myself laughing in the most unexpected moments—like when I am desperately trying to style my hair into a sad little bun, or when I catch my reflection and think, “Wow, I look like a potato in a beanie.” That laughter is what keeps me going. It is my therapy when the days feel too heavy.

I am learning to let go of what I cannot control, but it is a process. A messy, emotional, often hilarious process. I may not be able to stop my hair from falling out, but I can control how I respond to it. And I choose to respond with honesty, vulnerability, and a good dose of sass.

There is something oddly empowering about confronting your vanity and saying, “Yes, I care about my hair, and that does not make me shallow.” It makes me human. It means I still value the parts of myself that existed before the diagnosis. It means I am not letting cancer strip away everything that makes me feel like me.

So here I am, negotiating with the universe, making peace with my scalp, and clinging to humor like a lifeline. Maybe I will emerge from this with less hair but more perspective. Maybe I will finally embrace the silver strands, the bald spots, the regrowth that refuses to cooperate. Maybe I will find beauty in the new me—curly, straight, or somewhere in between.

And if not? Then I will rock a beanie like it is a fashion statement and keep on laughing through it all. Because sometimes, the best way to fight back is not with fury or denial—but with fearless, defiant, ridiculous laughter.

Because in the end, this journey is not just about survival. It is about resilience, identity, and finding light in unexpected places. And if I can laugh about losing my hair in the middle of a brain cancer battle, then maybe, just maybe, I am winning more than I thought.