It wasn’t the diagnosis that ended my world; It was the effects of the treatment. I didn’t fear death. Actually, at times, I welcomed it. But, what brought me to my knees, stole my dignity, was when my hair started falling out.

Hair had great value in my home. Mom, in her younger years, modeled her hair, featuring it in three movies and a dozen shampoo commercials. I don’t think we ever went in public without someone complimenting Mom’s hair. Hair defined Mom.

My aunties, grandma, and Aunt Jack were all beauticians. They made their living styling hair. Whenever I went to family parties, one of my relatives would hover over me and redo my hair. 

Hair had value.

At the end of ninth grade, I received my cancer diagnosis. They gave me a high prognosis of beating that monster by subjecting me to treatments that made me hell-a-sick. 

I missed most end-of-year activities, either being in the clinic or puking my guts out at home.

Tragedy stole my remaining hope the morning of 10th-grade pictures. As Auntie Helen straightened my hair, she shrieked. Her hands clutched a wad of my hair.

“Jeni, did you know you were losing your hair?”

“I guess,” I said. Lately, it seemed like my brush clogged faster with hair, but I had tried to ignore it. Seeing Auntie Helen holding piles of my hair opened my eyes to the reality of my hair loss. A hideous patch of the scalp called attention on the top right side of my head.

“I ain’t going to pictures like that,” I moaned.

“Oh, honey, oh deary,” Auntie Helen said in her thick New York accent.

Tears poured down my face. 

“Let’s take ya to the shop. I have some lovely wigs you can pick from.”

“I ain’t wearing a wig!”

“Oh, honey. What choice do you have? You can’t have this bald patch in your class picture. On no, honey, you can’t.”

Auntie Helen took me to her studio, and her twin Auntie Ellen was there to meet us. They tried on a variety of wigs and settled for one that matched my brown curls the best. 

“Can’t even tell,” Auntie Ellen said.

“Nope, looks natural,” agreed Auntie Hellen.

I looked like I wore a wig.

They took extra time on my make-up, and Auntie Ellen had a fabulous top for me to wear. 

“Oh, don’t she look beautiful, Helen?”

“Oh, yes, oh my, oh yes.” You could tell they were twins in their similar mannerisms and accent.

“I’m late for school,” I told them after what felt like hours of their fussing over me. I think they overcompensated to get me to forget that I was going bald.

“That’s okay, honey. You look fabulous. Just as long as you ain’t late for your pictures.”

“Yeah, as long as you ain’t late for pictures.”

Throughout the week, my hair came out in chunks. I looked repulsive.

“You are gonna half ta shave it,” Aunt Jack said. “It looks unsettling to have all those patches.”

Aunt Jack was the lead of style in our family. What she said ruled. 

“No, no.” I wept. “You can’t take my hair. No. I won’t let you. I don’t want to live anymore if you make me bald.” I meant it.

“Oh, honey,” my aunties and mom said as they surrounded me in a giant hug.

“Tomorrow, we will all bring our best wigs for you to choose from, and then we will shave your hair,” Aunt Jack said.

“I won’t do it!” I howled as I stormed out of the house to the lake.

I sat on the bank and cried because I didn’t want to lose my pretty, curly hair. It wasn’t as lovely as Mom’s, but close. I had heard when curly-haired people lose their hair; often, it grows back coarse and straight. I was going to look like a freak.

Mom took me to Auntie Helen’s studio the next day, where all the family gathered to support me.

“You better have brought rope to tie me down because otherwise, there is no way I am going through with this.”

“Come, come, sit darling,” Auntie Helen said as she led me to a barber’s chair in the center. Dutifully but spitefully, I sat and cried.

Auntie Helen turned on the electric razor. I squirmed. She seemed way too eager to do this.

“No,” I screamed.

I didn’t want to live anymore.

“It’s okay, honey,” she said as her tears wet her face.

And then, to my complete shock, Auntie Helen turned the razor on her head. She shaved a huge section of hair. Her beautiful yellow locks dropped to the floor.

“What are you doing?” I cried.

Several more razors buzzed to life. I looked around and saw the rest of my aunties do the same thing to their hair, as well as Aunt Jack. In the corner, even Grandma was shaving a section of her head.

I stood up, then sat. “What are you guys doing?”

No one answered me.

And then, it was done. All the beauticians in my family had shaved their own hair. 

“Julia,” Auntie Helen said. My mom went to Auntie Helen’s barber chair and sat. “Your turn.”

Mom had the loveliest smile on her face and looked peaceful as Auntie Helen shaved her hair. I ran to Mom’s side and grabbed Auntie Helen’s hand. 

“You can’t shave Mom’s hair,” I cried. “Her hair defines her.”

“Please sit down, sweetie.”

I sat.

After the most bizarre beauty appointment ever, my relatives surrounded me, all of them smiling.

“Jeni, we love you,” Mom said. “Although this is a horrible moment in your life, we want you to know you never have to go through it alone. We will always be here, supporting you. You will always have your family with you.”

We all cried.

“Now, it is your turn.”

I looked at all the shiny heads. My beautiful family had sacrificed their looks, their sense of identity for me.

For me!

With bravery I didn’t know I had, I sat in Auntie Helen’s chair. Aunt Jack held my right hand, and Mom held my left. When the razor robbed me of my hair, I didn’t cry.

And as my world changed because of my disease, so did my understanding of life. I knew my family had my back. They would be there for me always. They would lift me when down and would cheer me when up. 

Although the disease took much from me, it gave me the most incredible understanding of all.

Love and family were everything!