REGARDLESS OF HOW WE WEAR IT, HAIR IS PART OF OUR IDENTITY—AT LEAST, FOR MOST OF US. IT FRAMES OUR FACE, REFLECTS OUR PERSONALITY, AND CAN EVEN DEFINE OUR FEMININITY. BUT HAIR IS ALSO ONE OF THE FIRST THINGS YOU LOSE TO CHEMOTHERAPY. IN FEBRUARY 2023, IT WAS MY TURN. SLOWLY BUT SURELY, I SURRENDERED MY LOCKS. BUT NOT EVERYTHING WAS SADNESS—THERE WAS PLENTY OF ROOM FOR HUMOUR. LOSING MY HAIR WAS CERTAINLY A TRANSFORMATION JOURNEY THAT I’D GLADLY SHARE WITH YOU. BECAUSE THERE’S REALLY A LOT YOU CAN DO TO GET THROUGH IT WELL.

An ode to my mane

I was born with thick, black hair. My mother was even a bit startled when she first saw me (she said). One of my earliest memories is of twirling a lock around my finger while drinking from my bottle as a toddler. I loved it! And to this day, I still twirl a strand of hair around my finger when I’m deep in thought.

My mane—thick, full, black with brown highlights—made me feel beautiful. It was part of who I was.

“You’re gonna lose your hair” -she said…

It’s February 2023. I was sitting with the oncology nurse when she said, “You’ll probably lose your hair. This chemo causes hair loss.”

Honestly? After the shock of my diagnosis and the long list of gruelling side effects (early menopause, anyone?), hair loss didn’t feel like the biggest blow. And the nurse reassured me—there was plenty I could do about it. She was right.

Still, it would be a mistake to underestimate the impact. I felt it, especially in the long run and at certain moments. Like the time I was in the shower and I suddenly held a whole thick strand in my hand. I won’t lie—I was shocked for a moment. Or when I caught a glimpse of a lady in the hallway mirror: a woman with a few sad, grey strands tied into a pathetic little ponytail. A second later, I realised—that woman was me. I felt the tears streaming down my face.

But in the end, losing my hair was easier to accept than I had expected. I approached it with a mix of nostalgia and curiosity, seeing it as a chance to try new styles. And surely, this loss wasn’t as absolute or irreversible as some others one might endure in life. But it was still something I had to go through. A couple of things helped me through that process:

The kindest hairdreser

A good hairdresser is priceless. I had the best. Anja was my rock.

As soon as I knew I’d lose my hair, I decided to go out in style. First, I went to Anja to celebrate my long hair: a wash, blow-dry, and styling session. A week later, I cut it to shoulder length. The week after that, even shorter—a bob. And then shorter still. When my hair was almost gone, Anja always had a solution. She was endlessly patient, doing everything she could to make me feel beautiful and safe.

Cold-cap

Nowadays, there’s the cold cap—a cooling helmet that lowers your scalp temperature to help protect your hair follicles from chemo. But it doesn’t work for everyone, and some people find it too uncomfortable.

It works best for those with fine hair. I had thick hair, so I still lost a lot, just at a slower pace. Still, I thought it was worth trying. And if it doesn’t work, you can always stop.

Wigs, headbands and hats

Wigs and hairpieces are expensive. A wig can easily cost over €800. While part of it is covered by health insurance (€482.50 in 2025), you still have to pay quite a bit yourself. Fortunately, there are other options, like donation wigs for those on a budget. You can also get headbands made from your own hair, hats, scarves, or affordable hairpieces from your local hairdresser—so many possibilities!

But where do you start? How do you choose? Everyone says, “Pick what suits you.” But it’s not that simple. Because how do you know what suits you until you experience it—until you’ve actually lost your hair and are wearing a wig, a hat, or just your bare scalp?

I chose a wig, mainly for work. The idea of showing up bald or in a hat felt like a no-go. But at the time, I had no idea how I’d feel about it—I’d never been bald before. In the end, I only wore my wig at work. Even though it was beautiful and fit well, it still felt unnatural, and people could tell. Most of the time, I just walked around with my grey strands in a tiny ponytail. I also discovered that the cheaper hairpieces from my hairdresser suited me better than a fancy wig.

Throughout this process, it does help to have someone who’s been through it before. At Cancer Connect, we have a huge database of options and, more importantly, our own experiences. We’re here as a sounding board for women going through this now.

Humor en hoop

Here’s the surprising part: Losing my hair gave me, unexpectedly, plenty of opportunities to laugh. And I say that as someone who cringes at people who laugh everything off—so that wasn’t it.

I just developed a healthy dose of self-mockery and found ways to shock people a little—brilliant! Like the time I lifted my wig at a Disney ticket counter while asking about wait times—I got a fast pass immediately. Or when I put on a bright blue wig and greeted my kids with a straight face when they came home from school. Or when I plopped my wig onto my bald brother-in-law’s head—hilarious! We laughed so much.

And then, there’s hope: Your hair comes back. In the meantime, there are countless options, and you can even find ways to have fun with it. But most importantly, it’s not forever.

Almost everyone gets their hair back with ‘chemo curls.’ Ever heard of them? What happens next? I’ll tell you in my next blog.

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Do you relate to this experience?

Are you at the start of this journey and unsure what you want or what’s available? How do you feel about it? Share your experience with us—together, we are stronger. And of course, you can always contact  me directly.