There are certain things in life we take for granted. We don’t question them. I may not have always enjoyed “good hair days”, but I always had a big head of hair. I never succumbed to tweakments, fillers or Botox to try to hold back the ravages of time. It was my hair on which I lavished time, attention and money. I could rely on it to perform. When I was working, I would swizzle it up off my face, with a bull clip, then let it down at night if I was going out. It was well behaved and, without sounding vain, I thought of it as my crowning glory.
I am slightly embarrassed to admit that, when I was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma in November 2020, at 61, two days before England entered its second lockdown, one of the first questions I asked my oncologist was: “Will the chemo make me lose my hair?” His reply was: “Yes.” And he wasn’t lying. Within 10 days of completing my first round of chemo, I woke up one morning to discover my sleek mane had morphed into a crazy bird’s nest: matted, tangled and sticking out from my skull like a huge, wispy halo.
I looked at it in horror and disbelief. This was the moment I accepted the fact that I had cancer. It was sobering and sad. I tried to deny it; I didn’t brush it, nor wash it, for fear of it falling out. Instead, I called my hairdresser, Clive, to ask if he would come over and chop it into a short pixie cut. I couldn’t believe just one dose of chemo had done this to my glossy hair at such breakneck speed. It was like a slow breakup with a lover. I kept thinking: if only I had one more chance, I could make it work; I could save it.
Clive came over that night and had to spend three hours detangling it before he could even attempt to cut it. He later told me it was like grappling with quicksand. The hair was coming out in clumps, but he managed to fashion my below-shoulder-length locks into a vaguely acceptable style. I was rather taken with it, having never before dared to cut my hair very short. It would do.
That night, I propped my phone up on the sink to FaceTime my eldest daughter. Out of habit, I ran my fingers through my hair. It came out in my hand. I did it again. And again. I self-sabotaged until I looked like an ill cancer patient. My parting was wide. You could see my scalp. I had tufts. I pulled a beanie on and cried myself to sleep.
The next morning, I had to go into hospital to have blood taken. I asked a nurse if she could shave off what hair remained. Having one’s head shaved, as a woman, is such a submissive act. I kept my head bent, not looking at the strands dropping to the floor. I realise some women do this as a fashion statement, and look wonderful, but I wasn’t that woman. I felt as though every ounce of my femininity, my mojo and my personality had left me. I had changed; I no longer felt like me.
I didn’t look at myself in the mirror, nor did I cry, but I felt desperate. I didn’t show my husband, nor my family. I kept my head covered at all times. I hated the way I looked. Ridiculous vanity, really, considering all the bigger fish I had to fry and the medical hoops I had to jump through, but I found being bald truly traumatic. My eyelashes went, then my eyebrows. I felt like an unfinished painting. An alien.
I discovered the transformative joy of wigs relatively late into my treatment. I deliberately chose two that bore no resemblance to my old hair, which was light brown, extensively – and expensively – highlighted and straight. One was short, blond and choppy; the other was a sleek auburn bob. I grew quite fond of them.
When my hair began to grow back, about eight weeks after I finished chemo, it was like cress sprouting on blotting paper; soft like a newborn’s and spaced out. I kept that under wraps, too, but at night I would caress it in wonder. The longer it grew, the curlier it became. Greyish, but lush, with a wave. I was so grateful that I began to like it. I still do. It’s not my old hair, but then I am not the old me.
Being without a vital part of my armour for one long year taught me an important lesson: never rely on your looks. But we all do, to a certain extent; I know I did. The currency I subconsciously attributed to my wellbeing had a lot to do with outward appearances. Stripping away the veneer and familiarity (not to mention femininity) of my very essence was extremely destabilising. I would look in the mirror and see a virtual stranger looking back at me. No hair, no eyelashes, no eyebrows. I hated what I saw, yet, human nature being what it is, I gradually adapted to the cards I had been dealt. There was no choice.
I got used to the way I looked, because you can’t complain of bad hair days when you have no hair. Ultimately, being alive is all that matters.
Dancing With the Red Devil by Sarah Standing is published by Headline (£20). To support the Guardian and the Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
