What My Bald Head Says About You

The surprising things people reveal when they think they're talking about my hair

“Are you a survivor?” the woman behind the counter asked as I walked up to place my order.

How did she know? I wondered, mentally scanning my body. I wasn’t wearing anything with a pink ribbon on it, not my backpack or my “fight like a girl” cap. Having just come from teaching a weeklong intensive course, I was wearing a simple purple sheath dress. From where I’d parked, she couldn’t have seen the survivor ribbon magnet on my gas tank.

That’s when I realized: it was my head. I had shaved that morning; the new growth annoyed me after three days. Before I went bald, my guideline had been that when my hair became long enough to brush, it was time to cut it. Nowadays I don’t even let it grow that long. If I can see the hair, it’s time to shave. If my skin could tolerate it, I would probably pull out my electric razor every day or two.

I wasn’t always so cavalier about hair. I’ve had hair issues my entire life. Most of those issues involved being told that my hair was too coarse, too thick, too short, too complicated. In essence, too African.

“She got that coarse hair from her daddy’s people.”

“Girl, what is wrong with your hair?!”

“You need to get your hair done every week.”

“Oooh, you gotta lot of hair. I should have charged you more.”

“If you ever let your hair grow, you’ll have to find a new stylist because I’m not dealing with that.”

When I went natural in 1999, I thought that was the end of my hair story. But it was only the beginning. It’s one thing to swear off the “creamy crack.” It’s another thing to learn how to care for a hair texture that you’ve spent your entire life trying to destroy with straightening combs, Jheri curls, and relaxers. Eventually, I decided that hair was not something I wanted to spend time on. A few years after doing the big chop, I loc’ed it. “Finally!” my hair seemed to scream as my locs grew freakishly fast. By year six, they had become too long for me to manage myself. They were putting too much stress on my scalp and my hair was starting to thin.

Ironically, it was overhearing a friend’s description of me as “a woman with beautiful locs down her back” that led me to cut off my hair once again. I knew what it was like to have my self-image defined by my hair. It was time to release my attachment. One day I put India Arie’s “I Am Not My Hair” on repeat, and I cut all my hair off with the scissors that I’d bought on a whim that morning.

Over the next six years, I experimented with different natural styles, many of which had been unavailable when I’d first done the big chop (we didn’t even call it that then). It took a long time, but I eventually learned to love my hair, accepting the fact that where other people had curl patterns, I had angles and straight lines. Through trial and error, I figured out what products it liked. I started getting my hair done again, mostly in twists. In spring 2014, my hair was finally healthy enough that I got a professional color job for the first time.

I never even got to retouch the color. Less than two months later, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was going to lose the hair that it had taken me four decades to love. I was devastated. I was also determined not to waste another year hating my hair.

The oncology nurse told me when I’d lose my hair (right before the second chemo infusion). I shaved it off a week earlier, giving myself time to get used to the hairless me before the medicine kicked in and took the rest of the fuzz. I refused to wear a wig. I wore hats outside and rocked wraps in the colder months, but to protect, not to conceal. I loved my bald head, especially the feeling of showers and head rubs.

A lot of weird things happen when people find out that you are being treated for cancer. One is that they try to reassure you about your hair whether you want them to or not.

“My friend had cancer and her hair never fell out, so maybe you’ll be one of those people.” [Um, your friend had throat cancer and was on a completely different treatment.]

“I know this lady at work who had chemo. Her hair came back so pretty.” [Whatchu tryin’ to say about my hair?]

“You should try [“miracle” product]. I know this lady who uses it and she has long hair.” [I get that you don’t understand how chemo works, so you should probably sit this conversation out.]

When treatment ended, I was curious about what my hair might do when it began growing back. Except it never really grew back. It came back sparse, with thin spots that only master barbers could camouflage. Permanent hair loss was a concealed side effect of one of the chemo medications that I was on. Eventually law firms began to reach out with invitations to join the class action lawsuit. I opted not to. What mattered to me was not my hair; it was being alive.

In fact, chemo had taught me that hair was overrated. I hadn’t missed spending time or money on it. After a few years, I decided to embrace baldness. I stopped going to barbers or wearing the occasional wig. I began shaving my head twice a week. And oh the things that people say!

“You’re so lucky. I wish I didn’t have to worry about hair. ” [Being diagnosed with breast cancer two times is not really the luck I want.]

“I would do that but my husband would have a fit.” [I’d have a fit if I married a man who controls what I do with my hair.]

“Girl, you rock that bald head! I could never. I think about it, but my head isn’t the right shape. I would be looking crazy.” [Yes I do, thanks. And also, I don’t care.]

My head is a Rorschach test that detects people’s hair insecurities. It’s become humorous to me, the things that hairy people feel the need to say when they see a bald woman. Like the woman at the restaurant counter. She was sweet, but she also couldn’t imagine any reason that I’d be bald other than being fresh off the infusion chair. I didn’t bother to correct her as she told me about her husband’s cancer experience and encouraged me to “Stay strong! If you stay strong and keep up hope, you live!”

That’s not true, but thanks. Now can I get a six piece, wings only, fried crispy with the Thai chili sauce? And ranch dressing, please.

Did anything in this piece resonate with you? Maybe it’s not hair, but some other part of your body or personality that you have had to work to accept. Leave a comment and join the conversation.

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