The Long Haul & Hair Loss Reflection

The Long Haul

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything here. I thought my story would wrap up neatly with the original TCHP chemo, surgery, radiation, and a shiny little pathological complete response at the end. Instead, I’m still in this—round five of T-DM1 chemo (KADCYLA, for those who want the medical spelling). My doctor cheerfully reminded me that in two more sessions, I’ll be halfway done. I hated that framing—halfway of a long, grinding process.

Then my sister-from-another-mister (late-in-life bestie, choose your label) cut through it with humor. She said, “You’re in the single digits now.” And I liked that. Single digits. Nine more to go. It feels more like a countdown than a sentence.

I have a lot to catch everyone up on and I have started that blog, but for today I wanted to finally post a blog I had started writing in July and never finished. So “HAIR” (pun intended) it is.

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Hair We Go Again

When my hair first started falling out during TCHP chemo
February 2025, it wasted zero time. By day 14, I was reluctantly sporting a shorter style, and by day 21, it had fully exited the building—leaving me with nothing but an empty scalp, plus some baby birdies (those stubborn little patches of ultra-blonde fuzz that refused to leave, no matter how toxic the chemo got—more on that in a second) and a huge sense of loss. Loss of control, loss of who I was, and loss of the direction I was headed.

Even throughout chemo, the patchy hair that remained was shockingly blonde—white-blonde, almost translucent in the light. Those little baby birdies held on like they had a purpose. Turns out, there's a reason for that. Chemotherapy targets fast-dividing cells, which includes most hair follicles. But lighter, finer hair shafts like those ultra-blonde ones tend to be produced by follicles with slightly different growth cycles and pigment production pathways. The melanocytes responsible for coloring hair are particularly sensitive to chemo, so when pigment production stops or is damaged, what's left is often very light, nearly colorless hair. In other words, my baby bird fuzz was surviving chemo and losing its melanin at the same time—leaving behind ghost strands that refused to quit.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, my hair wasn’t just hair; it had always been part of how I saw myself. For 53 years, I had never worn it shorter than shoulder-length. I even claim rights to the Jennifer Aniston haircut long before Jennifer herself made it iconic. Hair was my comfort blanket: hiding flaws, showcasing my mood, styled into halos, extensions, braids, and ponytails. Losing it felt like losing a crucial part of me, not just vanity (okay, maybe a little vanity), but control, familiarity, and comfort. The loss wasn't a choice—it was surrender. And yes, I cried – a lot.

Wig Life Crisis

Since then, I’ve experimented with a variety of blonde wigs. You’ve seen them all—long, short, sassy, classy—but none truly felt like "me." They were temporary stand-ins until the real thing returned.

Fast-forward nearly six months, and my hair is slowly making a cautious comeback. It’s definitely darker—thanks for noticing, everyone—and currently resembles a classic "wiffle," the very hairstyle Jake still playfully reminds me I inflicted on him throughout his childhood.

I'm working on embracing my reflection without automatically reaching for a baseball hat or headband. There isn’t much anyone can say to expedite my comfort level; it’s entirely a "me" problem. The wigs now seem like impostors, representing a stage of my life that I’m eager to leave behind. People ask why I don’t wear them anymore. They used to make me feel like myself, but now they just feel heavy—physically, emotionally, symbolically. Like I’m trying to step backward into a person I’m not anymore.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I don’t know who I am. When will I finally see myself again—or even some version of myself? Who am I now? How do I identify with the person I see in the mirror?

Because I’ve changed. In every possible way.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe I won’t ever go back to being that long-haired blonde woman I was before—and maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe that version of me belonged to a different chapter, and now I’m writing something new. I don’t know what this new me looks like yet, but I know she’s still undeniably stubborn. Still curious. Still fighting. And still figuring it out—wiffle and all.

Whatever I grow into next, it will be on my terms this time.

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Plot Twist: August 7, 2025 – The $4,000 Wig

So, I thought this piece was done. Wrapped. Published in my 

 head. But after I hit save, I walked upstairs, opened the closet, and stared at the army of wigs I’d collected—bought, borrowed, created, and Frankensteined with headbands and bobby pins. One by one, I folded them up, hung them, tucked them away. All except for one.

The $4,000 wig. The one I never wore.

It was supposed to be the one. The crown jewel of chemo couture. And yet, it sat in its box, untouched, because every time I put it on during that first round of treatment, it felt... wrong. Like I was playing dress-up in someone else’s skin. Like I was trying too hard to be the girl I used to be.

But today—months later, with a dark little wiffle making its way back—something made me pause. I didn’t put the wig away. I put it on.

And something was different.

It didn’t feel like a costume this time. It didn’t feel heavy. It didn’t feel like I was forcing something. I looked in the mirror, expecting to roll my eyes at myself—and instead, I softened.

I felt a little more like me.

Not old-me. Not trying-to-be-me. Just… a version of me that doesn’t have to prove anything anymore. Maybe that wig wasn’t meant to save me back then. Maybe it was meant to wait until I was ready to meet myself halfway.

So no, I’m not bringing the wigs back. But I’m also not pretending that this whole process is linear. Maybe that $4,000 wig still has a place in the story—it just needed the right chapter.

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Somewhere Between September and Me

 So here we are—it’s almost October.

That $4,000 wig? Once again, it doesn’t feel like me. My hair is growing, slowly and unevenly—some spots are a quarter inch, others are a half inch—and I’m still not sure who this version of me is.

But Friday night, I did something I’ve never done before: I went out. Like, really out. No wig. No baseball cap. No scarf, headband, or cleverly tied “I’m not bald” wrap. Just me. Just my hair—short, dark, patchy, but mine.

Chip and I went to Rent (yes, RENT, my favorite musical) at the North Shore Music Theatre thanks to an incredible organization called To Show We Care—a group that gives people in active treatment a night out to feel like themselves again. And I did. Kind of.

It was wonderful. The show, the cause, the moment. But also weird. Because when I looked in the mirror before we left, I still didn’t recognize the person staring back. I didn’t feel strong or brave or free—I just felt unsure.

And yes, since so many people love to tell me:

👉I KNOW my hair is darker.

👉I KNOW I don’t have any gray.

👉I KNOW it’s “coming back beautifully.”

I say this with all the love in my exhausted little heart: 🤫 

I don’t know what I’m going to do with my hair. I don’t know what it wants to be. And if I’m honest, I don’t really know what I want to be either. Because when your hair was part of your identity for 50+ years, and then it’s gone—and then it grows back differently—you don’t just “bounce back.”

Yes, I wore that expensive wig in late August. I gave it a solid effort. But here at the end of September, almost October, I don’t even know where it belongs anymore. Just like I don’t quite know where I belong in this body that’s been through so much.

But maybe the point isn’t to figure it all out yet.

Maybe the point is just to keep showing up. With or without hair. With or without clarity. With or without a plan.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough for now.

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Not Going Dark, I Promise

Part of why I’ve been so quiet is because this feels never-ending. At some point, the updates stop being “the latest news” and start just being life. This is my life right now. A cycle of infusions, scans, labs, and recovery days. I carry two genetic defects that make me prone to cancer, so this isn’t just a detour—it’s part of my landscape.

Still, I’m here. Round five is in the books. Round six is on deck. I may not have PCR, and I may not have hair the way I want it, but I’ve got single digits on my side. And for now, that’s enough.

I have a lot more to fill you in on—from radiation to therapy to what it's like to feel like a semi-functioning science project—but I’ll post that in a few days. For today, I’ll just sit with this.

And if you want to let me know you're still here, still listening, still reading—send me a pic of a short hairstyle that's no more than ¼–½ inch. Bonus points if it makes me laugh or cry. Or both.