I Miss My Hair

One month after I completed chemotherapy for Stage 3 breast cancer, and two weeks after I underwent a double mastectomy, I sat in bed, my surgical wounds itchy, my morale at an all-time low.

“I would pay $1,000 if I could have any real amount of hair right now,” I told my husband. He nodded, politely understanding, but his eyes widened. We owed a colossal sum on our taxes. I was on medical leave from my job. We were not exactly flush. But I was lying: I would have paid vastly more than $1,000 to have a real amount of hair on my head. I still would. I have played with different theoretical sums: $5,000? Maybe $10,000?

Without hair I feel diminished, undone. My grief over my hair exceeds, I think, my grief for my disappeared breasts, or my health more generally. There are moments when I worry it will swallow me whole, moments when it inches dangerously close to despair.

Next to the threat of death—the firm, cold gun against your temple that is cancer—it seems petty. Shouldn’t I be grateful to-ing the ?