So far, the most noticeable side effect of chemotherapy has been losing my hair. I’ve never been the sort of woman who spends hours in front of a mirror, but it still hit me harder than I expected.

Because it isn’t really just about the hair.

One of the side effects of my chemotherapy regimen (paclitaxel and carboplatin) is hair loss. I thought it would happen quickly, so when my hair was still firmly attached two weeks after the first treatment, I started wondering whether maybe I’d somehow escape that particular side effect. Then my scalp started hurting. More and more. The closest thing I can compare it to is that strange feeling when you’ve slept on your hair awkwardly and try to push it back into place. Except the feeling never went away. It hurt even when I wasn’t touching my hair.

A couple of days later, I started finding hairs everywhere. On my pillow. On my hat. Down the back of my jacket. The pain was annoying, and by then it was obvious I wasn’t going to avoid this. So I messaged my hairdresser.

Of course, we could have shaved it all off at home straight away. But first I wanted to see what I looked like with short hair. That’s something I never would have chosen voluntarily. If it weren’t for cancer, obviously. Long hair—even if it spent most of its life tied back because of training—felt like part of who I was. I found a haircut online called a micro pixie. It wasn’t really me, but it looked nice. My hairdresser booked me in for Tuesday. It didn’t really hit me until I was sitting in the chair and she draped the cape over my shoulders.

“So, shall we do the cut from the photo you sent me?”

I could only nod.

I tried not to cry.

That didn’t work.

“Do you want to turn away from the mirror?”

I shook my head.

The tears came and went. I couldn’t stop them. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t stop them. Normally we spend the appointment talking about life, children, travel, and whatever else has happened since the last haircut. This time we barely spoke at all.

Afterwards, I went for a long walk to process everything.

My original plan was to keep the short haircut through Christmas so we’d still have nice family photos. Then I’d call my brother and ask him to shave my head. He already had years of experience with clippers, so at least he was qualified.

Unfortunately, my hair had other plans.

It kept falling out.

I was shedding like our dog when winter ends and the weather starts getting warmer.

At that point, it was only a matter of time. I didn’t particularly want to leave evidence of myself all over the house or clog the shower drain. So it was hairdresser on Tuesday and my brother on Saturday. He arrived armed with clippers, a razor, and shaving foam.

“I never thought I’d end up shaving my own sister,” he said.

Then we got to work. I still had a surprising amount of hair, so it took a while. About an hour later, I looked like a monk.

I officially joined the bald club.

Afterwards, my dad, my brother, and I took a family photo together. I’d already bought turbans, scarves, and hats, so I was prepared. I wear them almost constantly now because my head gets cold, even under a knitted winter hat. The first time my son saw me, he gently stroked my head and said:

“Mummy is still Mummy.”

These days he says I look like Grandpa.

Fortunately, he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

So we’re good.

I arrived at my first oncology appointment with long hair hanging over my shoulders. I arrived at the second one without it. There’s another side effect worth mentioning. Chemotherapy targets cells that divide quickly. That includes hair, but also body hair. Underarms. Legs. Everywhere else. So one of the few advantages of chemotherapy is that I’m saving money on razors.

And time.

No more moments of realizing halfway through getting dressed that I forgot to shave my legs. As for my eyebrows and eyelashes, that’s another story. They are still hanging on. My eyebrows have stopped growing, so at least I don’t have to pluck them. But I know that once they start falling out, that’ll be the end of that. Every time I lose an eyelash, I feel like I should hold a small farewell ceremony. People keep telling me they’re only hair and that they’ll grow back.

That’s true.

But for some people, hair is part of their identity. For others, appearance matters a great deal, and adjusting to a new version of yourself takes time. Over the past year, I’d finally started feeling attractive. I’d finally started liking what I saw in the mirror. My hair played a big part in that.

And suddenly it was gone.

At first, losing it felt like losing the version of myself I’d only just found. The version that felt comfortable in her own skin and, for the first time in a long time, actually felt pretty. Of course, Sinéad O’Connor looked amazing with a shaved head. It’s all about how you wear it. The problem is that I don’t want a shaved head.

I want long hair.

And I suspect it will take quite a while before I truly accept my current appearance instead of merely tolerating it because I have no choice. One friend suggested I tell people I’d just returned from a long Buddhist journey of enlightenment across Asia. Another suggested buying a collection of wigs and experimenting with different hairstyles and colours. I might do that if it becomes clear that treatment will last for years and my hair won’t be coming back any time soon. For now, I’m still holding onto the professor’s original prediction:

“By autumn, you could be healthy.”

Behind all the vanity, though, there’s something else.

With hair—long, short, tied up, loose—I looked healthy.

I felt healthy.

Cancer existed somewhere in the back of my mind, but it wasn’t everywhere. For about two weeks after my brother shaved my head, I could still feel my hair. Or at least I thought I could. I’d reach up automatically and be surprised every time my hand found nothing. Eventually that feeling disappeared.

Since losing my hair, cancer has been everywhere. I see it every morning in the mirror. I see it when I wrap a turban around my head before leaving the house. I see it when I shower. I see it when I pass women with beautiful long hair. I see it when I brush my son’s hair. I see it when I take him for a haircut.

It’s everywhere.

And now strangers can see it too. A short pixie cut can be a style choice. A shaved head usually tells a different story. For the first time, I felt like I officially looked like a cancer patient.