The surprising reason I cut my hair short before chemo
The first thing I did after my oncology team said my chemotherapy plan might thin or remove my hair was book a haircut. Not a dramatic sweep-back transformation, and definitely not a peroxide-blonde act of rebellion. I asked for a blunt pixie cut, sat under a salon cape, and sent my daughter the slightly uneven photo that every parent inevitably sends when they have forgotten how photographs work.
I had expected the haircut to be about control, although I could not have explained that clearly at the time. What I did not expect was how much emotional space it created. By cutting my hair short before chemo, I stopped my appearance from becoming a daily commentary on my treatment. That sounds sensible now. At the time, it simply felt like one decision I could still make without asking anyone’s permission.
A choice made before the loss
For years, my hair had been an unofficial record of how I was coping. A decent day meant it behaved. A rough week showed up in the roots before I admitted anything was wrong. When cancer arrived, that habit became exhausting. I was not trying to look brave; I was trying to stop looking as though my body needed constant interpretation.
The salon was ordinary: a strip shop near the supermarket, fluorescent lighting, a radio playing songs from several decades ago. My stylist did not need to know why I wanted the cut. She asked sensible questions, washed out the old colour, and trimmed until my hair stopped touching my collar. I felt strangely calm while the scissors moved.
The surprising reason was not vanity. It was that I wanted my hair to stop being evidence. A short crop would be easier to manage when it began to fall, but it also gave me a way to prepare emotionally. Losing something I had chosen felt less like having something stolen from me. I could joke about the haircut, photograph it, and make it mine before treatment made the decisions for me.
The mirror stopped telling the truth
There is a strange pressure in having cancer and still being seen as a woman. People look for signs. “You look so well” can be generous, but it can also feel like a demand to perform wellness. I grew tired of compliments that arrived with hidden instructions to stay positive and keep fighting.
That is why the haircut mattered more than its appearance. Before it, strangers could mention my hair as evidence of change. Afterwards, they often had nothing to say beyond “nice haircut.” That sounds trivial, yet having one less subject for public commentary gave me a surprising amount of privacy.
Cancer made me fixated on information, especially anything written in clinical language. I once described the anxious maths of reading a 2 a.m. pathology report, when numbers and jargon seemed to offer certainty but usually did not. Hair was one area where I could still see a clear before and after. It was comforting to choose something that did not require another medical opinion.
On treatment mornings, the mirror became less reliable. Fatigue changed my face. Steroids puffed my cheeks. Lack of sleep did whatever it liked with my expression. The short hair had not fixed that, but it stopped one familiar source of judgement. I no longer expected my appearance to tell the whole story.
Treatment days felt more ordinary
My chemotherapy days followed the familiar rhythm of Australian life: an early alarm, a folded washbag beside the front door, sunscreen, and a chemist queue for the prescription I had collected the day before. Even in a hospital gown, I still reached for my hat. It is one of those ordinary habits that becomes strangely important when everything else feels medical.
Cutting my hair beforehand changed those routines in small but meaningful ways. I could wash my head without waiting for someone else to help. I could sleep without a hair tie digging into my scalp. I could decide in advance which scarves, soft hats and wigs might be useful instead of scrambling for them after the worst week.
| Before the cut | After the cut |
|---|---|
| Hair looked like a scoreboard for how I was coping | Hair felt like a choice I had made |
| A good day could show in my roots | I no longer expected every day to appear on my head |
| Strangers often asked about my hair | Strangers had less to comment on |
| Losing it might feel like losing control | I could prepare for hats, scarves and wigs |
The haircut did not make treatment comfortable. No pixie cut can do that. It made the discomfort less personal. When my hair started coming out in the shower, I felt sad, but I did not also feel as though I had failed some invisible test of grace. The pixie cut had given me a bridge between my old appearance and what came next.
Scalp cooling was another option I discussed with my treatment team. Availability varies between public oncology units, private hospitals and clinics, and it does not guarantee that every person will keep their hair. I was grateful for the choice, even knowing it might not be the one I wanted most. Having options restored a small piece of agency.
Australian details changed the plan
Australian healthcare shaped many of those choices. Public oncology units are busy, and treatment days can involve long waits, crowded car parks and the compressed timetable of a shared infusion room. Medicare covers eligible public hospital care, while private health insurance and out-of-pocket costs depend on the policy and the service. The Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme also helps subsidise many medicines, though practical expenses still add up.
Location mattered as well. Friends in Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane compared treatment centres, parking stories and the distance travelled between home and hospital. A city may offer several specialists and support services, but metropolitan convenience does not remove the exhaustion of travelling while sick. For some people, moving closer to family or a treatment room for a while is simply sensible.
The local market offered plenty of choices once I knew where to look. Australian salons were good for the short cut, wig suppliers provided synthetic and human-hair options, and cooling-cap services could be worth investigating. Prices varied widely, particularly for higher-quality wigs and fitted headwear. I learned to ask about service costs, rebates and what a health fund might cover before committing to anything expensive.
Weather shaped the rest. A woollen beanie made sense during a grey Melbourne winter, but it felt absurd during a hot Sydney summer. I kept sunscreen and a broad-brimmed hat in my bag because the scalp is vulnerable after treatment. On ordinary mornings, my choices still involved a hat, a coffee, a supermarket run and the small negotiations that make up a day.
Recovery reached beyond my hair
People often focus on hair because it is visible. Fatigue, brain fog, sexual changes, numbness and pain are harder to photograph. There were days when losing my hair felt almost manageable because it could be covered. The invisible symptoms followed me into meetings, conversations and family dinners, where nobody could see the effort required to appear ordinary.
I learned to ask for help with the practical parts of treatment rather than waiting until I was desperate. That included discharge planning. For fellow survivors who also live with type 2 diabetes, the transition from hospital to home can be just as important as the treatment itself; I found diabetes discharge planning a useful reminder to make medication, food and monitoring plans clear before leaving the ward.
Work added another layer. Returning part-time or changing duties felt embarrassingly personal, but Australian law provides important protection through the Disability Discrimination Act 1992. Employers are not healthcare experts, though, and practical adjustments still require clear conversation. Keeping documentation and requesting adjustments early felt less vulnerable than trying to prove how difficult a treatment day had been after I had already pushed through it.
Self-care became less about perfect routines and more about small, repeatable things. I showered when I could, kept movement gentle, asked someone to bring dinner, and stopped treating rest as a reward for being productive. Some days the only useful plan was a shower, a glass of water and an early night.
The people around me
My family treated the haircut as mine, which was exactly right. My daughter wanted to take dozens of photographs; my husband quietly made an appointment for every haircut I missed while in treatment. Their support did not mean taking over. It meant making ordinary things easier without turning every practical task into a family project.
Friends found their own ways to help. Some organised meals, some drove me to appointments, and one produced an impressively chaotic bake sale at her local community centre. Australians are good at gathering around a barbecue, so a fundraising lunch felt natural, although nobody expected me to stay for the washing-up. The useful part was not the money. It was seeing familiar faces in a place that was not a clinic.
Support also needed boundaries. Sometimes I wanted information, sometimes silence, and sometimes someone to sit on the sofa without asking whether I had done my blood tests. The wider collection of survivorship stories reminded me that there is no single way to live with cancer. Some days I wanted practical advice; other days I wanted a joke that did not taste medicinal.
Being understood did not require perfect explanations. It helped when people understood that my mood could change with hormones, pain and sleep. It helped even more when they treated me as a whole person rather than a cautionary tale they had grown close to.
What I would tell my former self
I would tell my former self that the haircut did not need to look transformative. It needed to feel comfortable, wash easily and make the next few months manageable. I would have liked a better plan for scalp care, softer pillowcases and fewer photographs of the back of my head. I would also have liked someone to tell me that grief and usefulness could exist together.
I would tell her not to let a sales assistant turn fear into a rushed purchase. A wig can be fun and useful, but it does not have to be the price of feeling presentable. Trying things on with a trusted friend made the market feel less intimidating. It also helped me separate what I wanted from what I thought I was supposed to want.
Some of my friends have bought branded merchandise as a small sign of support. The gesture mattered because it connected the practical side of the blog with the person behind it. Survivorship can contain fundraising spreadsheets, but it can also contain ordinary objects that say: I read this, I see you, and you are not invisible to me.
What I want you to remember is that you are allowed to make a choice before illness makes it for you. A haircut can be practical, private, funny or defiant. Most of all, it can return a small piece of your life to your own hands.