I beat cancer.
Nobody warned me my hair would come back for revenge.
When you’re a cancer patient on chemo
(also known as: medically sanctioned poisoning),
the doctor will tell you whether your particular poison
is the hair-killing kind.
What they don’t tell you…
is that your hair will remember.
And it will extract its vengeance.
Some people shave their heads early
to avoid the heartbreak
of waking up
looking like you lost a fight with your own pillow…
and the pillow has no regrets.
Some of us think… maybe it won’t fall out.
So we keep it.
We baby it.
We speak kindly to it.
(Some even try cold capping,
which feels like negotiating with a hostage.)
It doesn’t matter.
The hair remembers.
I’m convinced a full head of hair
is deeply proud of itself.
No one explains to it,
“Hey… this poison is necessary so the rest of us can live.”
And judging by what comes next,
I’m not sure it would care.
Eventually, you get to the bell.
The glorious, emotional, hard-earned bell.
I personally rang the hell out of it. That’s another story.
The scan says: no evidence of disease.
And you wait.
Excited. Hopeful.
For the hair to return.
At first, it’s thrilling.
Tiny sprigs show up
and you think: we’re back.
But around the one-inch mark…
That’s when the vengeance begins.
First: the color.
Not silver gray.
Battle-ax gray.
Patchy.
With pink scalp shining through
like it was done on purpose.
You finally have hair again…
and somehow it’s worse.
Then: the texture.
Give it another inch
and now it curls.
The first time, it curled all over.
I liked it.
This time?
It chose chaos.
Curls in the back.
At the crown.
No pattern. No logic.
Mostly it just sticks up
like it’s trying to leave.
That is not happening.
Eventually it reaches my preferred length.
Still gray.
Still patchy.
Still flashing scalp like a warning signal.
So I went to my hairdresser
and begged for help.
Same color. Same process.
In some places… nothing.
In others…
a deeply unfortunate yellow.
So now I’m on a mission
to earn my hair’s forgiveness.
Expensive shampoo.
Luxurious conditioner.
Heat protection.
Gentle brushing.
Careful handling.
No sudden moves.
Because I finally understand:
This is not my hair.
This is a grudge.
And I am just out here
trying to negotiate a peace treaty
with my own hair…
which clearly has no interest in peace.
And somewhere in all of this—
the gray, the curls, the absolute rebellion—
you realize something important:
You’re still here.
So you take your coffee out to the deck,
watch the water for a minute
and decide… that’s enough.
Pull up a chair.
The water’s sparkling… and apparently, so is my attitude.
-Pattie
If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.
No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.
