I have never had a good relationship with my body. For some unknown reason, when it comes to my physical appearance, no one has ever really been able to fully convince me that there is some kind of beauty there. People (including my husband) have told me numerous times that it is there, but I can never bring myself to believe it. I have starved and purged this one body of mine to an unhealthy extreme; I have run it into the ground, pierced it, dyed it, mentally taxed it and unintentionally scarred it. I have not given it the respect it deserves, yet still it remains. It is only now, as I journey through this temporary battle, that I am beginning to see shades of what others say they see.

However, it’s a slow process. As I look in the mirror, I still see a scarred, empty space where once there was a part of me that went from embarrassing the 11 year old me to nourishing my first child 22 years later. I see more scars where foreign objects lie in order to consume chemicals to fight this ugly thing. But now, more than anything, I see my head, in its entirety, for the very first time in my life. Over the course of a few days, as my scalp became tender and I noticed more and more strands appearing on the floor of the bathtub, I made the decision. My hair had to go. Building up the courage to get rid of the one thing I really liked about myself was no easy task. I have never, ever been without hair I was born with a full head of curly black hair…

Never in my life have I had it shorter than this:

So, without question or doubt, my amazing husband gently shaved away what remained of the one thing I was really able to love about the physical me; and though it was expected, it is still quite shocking for me to see myself so… bald.

Despite giving me some clarity, cancer is still a downright jerk, and in the heavyweight championship of me vs. cancer, cancer has really taken some cheap shots. Although it is only hair, and it will grow back, hair loss from chemotherapy or radiation is like a swift punch in the kidneys when you turn around to wave a victorious hand at the crowd after a seemingly knock-out worthy uppercut to your opponent. The loss of one’s hair is like being branded by cancer. It’s that sign of illness that even if you are feeling perfectly, wonderfully good, will still make you feel “different” from everyone else. As if somehow you don’t quite belong here.

Even so, I am managing to see past that. Every morning when I first look into the mirror, I do a bit of a double-take. Yet, what is more shocking to me are the feelings that ensue. As it turns out, I am not disgusted by my bald head. Instead, I am increasingly in awe of how it reveals my face, forcing me to see exactly what is there. The shape of my face, the different bumps, rolls and curves of my head, the happiness in my eyes. I feel as if I am seeing myself for the first time, and what I’m seeing, dare I believe it, is something akin to beauty. And although cancer is one very unwelcome, cheap shot meanie, I am so grateful to finally have the ability to start seeing myself as perhaps I should have so long ago.