I am not my hair

My hair and I have gone through quite the journey. I don't want to say that I was my hair I kind of linked my identity and self-confidence through my hair. When I did have hair, I always made sure that it was done except for when I was bumming it around campus. But if I was in real clothes, I definitely made sure that it looked nice. Maybe it was my southern upbringing, but my keeping my hair done was something ingrained in me since I was a little girl. 

"Beauty is pain," something my mom would say as I sat in-between her legs getting my hair done the night before an event or for the week. I lived for the grooming process and as I got older, I maintained a routine of getting relaxers every 2-3 months and deep conditioning treatments every two weeks to keep my hair healthy. 

The scariest thing when I got diagnosed with breast cancer wasn't the thought of dying or reactions to chemotherapy, it was the fact that I would lose my hair. I would have to figure out who I was without my hair. 

Easter, one week after my first treatment, was the last time that I got my hair done. I remember trying to talk my stylist out of trimming my bangs because it was just going to fall out anyway. I started losing my hair after the second treatment and that point I had stopped brushing and washing my hair altogether. Gross, I know but I was traumatized and not ready to let go just yet.

Earlier this month, I saw a play called "'da kink in my hair" at the Ensemble Theater. There was a particular line that stuck with me: Bald is bold. And they're right, it is but, in that instance, it was something done willingly. As a way of recovering through something emotionally since it allows black women to let go of the societal pressures that require constant upkeep. 

This was something I was being forced to do and I was not ok.  

The Big Chop.

The first and only selfie that I have with my short hair from my first chop

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Before my "big chop," I had a friend comb through my hair because I refused to do it myself. This friend did all the gross things that I couldn't get anyone else to do -- you know who you are! I kept my eyes closed as she did it. I didn't want to see how much hair I was losing.

It was a lot.

She forgot to cover it up in the trash and I started to cry.

That next day, I was very adamant about shaving my head. I originally wanted to go to this one barbershop because they served clients free beer but ended up settling for Sports Cuts because the wait was shorter.

Sports Cuts was a very emotional experience. I was crying, my mom was crying and the stylist was crying. It was weird seeing all of my hair on the floor but once it was shaved off, I was comfortable wearing it out...kind of. I still wouldn't go anywhere without my wig.

Everyone loved my little bald head. People were always suggesting how I should wear it out more or that I had the perfect head shape to go bald.

I wore wigs a lot during this time. Mostly because I was still keeping my illness on the DL until I gathered the courage to tell people that I had cancer but also because I was still in shock. I didn't like the attention that came with a bald head. I didn't want to shave my head in the first place and I didn't like the attention that came with it. Even though they weren't, it felt like everyone was looking at me.

It took a while to get used to, but I eventually did.

Second BIG Chop.

What they do tell you is that once your hair starts growing back, it comes in like a newborn baby would. I liked that style and started to get comfortable not wearing a wig (mostly because it was too hot for one anyway).

My hair started growing back once I finished my first four rounds of chemo. I had to take a six-week break because I was due for surgery. As much as I hoped I wouldn't have to return to chemo, I had to continue the 12 originally estimated rounds.

I would lose my hair again and I was attached to the little growth I did have.

This time, I decided not to cut it. My logic was to wait and cut it off at the end so that it would grow in evenly. To be honest, that now doesn't make any sense but I went for it.

I looked crazy like a psych ward, electric shook treatment crazy. My hair was still falling out two months after treatment ended. I was getting depressed because I thought I looked so bad - I wore a wig everywhere and for some reason, broken out into hives.

You couldn't tell me I wasn't ugly. During this whole process, the one thing my mom didn't warn me about was the self-esteem issues that would stem from losing my hair. That hit me HARD.

Now. 

I cut my hair for the last time in September and I could watch my confidence grow again. Its been a battle for sure. But now, I love the process that my hair and I have gone through. I'm even at a point where I don't care about what on my head -- wig or no wig.

I no longer feel the need to wear a wig because I was insecure. I'm wearing it because I want to because I am beautiful with and without. I am not my hair, at least not anymore.