Negotiating with My Hairline
- timandcloe
- Apr 8
- 5 min read
Hair Is a Funny Thing
For many, their hair is part of their identity.
It reflects their personality, signals where they’re at in life, and can completely reinvent you when the moment calls for it (rough boyfriend break-up = new colour, drastic cut, and a full counselling session at the salon).
For me, my hair is part of who I am and has so many memories tied into it. And I’m not just talking about what sits on top of my head.
You see, I came into this world with a full head of hair, thick eyebrows, and a racing stripe down my back.
In fact, I was so hairy that my uncle, meeting me for the first time, even checked for a tail. Apparently, I could have been mistaken for a small gibbon and given my older sister’s name was Tammaryn (a possible nod to tamarin monkeys), the connection was already there.
Pre-puberty, I might have passed for a tiny Italian man - if it weren’t for my blunt fringe, which did a brilliant job of distracting from my hairy arms, thick monobrow, and a moustache that could make grown men weep.
Honest. There was zero free real estate on that upper lip.
In my teen years, my freshly shaved legs and armpits would prickle the second cold air hit them as I stepped out of the shower. But thankfully, by then I had a decent set of boobs and a respectable eyebrow gap, and that seemed enough to distract the boys from my Wookiee limbs.
Or maybe they were just polite...
Naturally, I also chose this pivotal identity-forming era to cut all my hair short in what I can only describe as a post Sliding Doors moment, only to end up looking nothing like Gwyneth Paltrow and far more like Javier Bardem in No Country for Old Men.
Thank gosh it was the early 2000s, when butterfly clips and hair handkerchiefs were fashionable and able to hide that atrocity.
At 17, I met my future father-in-law while bent over a chair in a local tattoo shop, having a skin-headed bikie shave my hairy lower back with a pink razor before tramp stamping #47 from the wall. Because Tim somehow thought that was the most appropriate time for introductions with his straight-laced father. 🤷
Thankfully, however, Bob was really interested in the inner workings of a bikie-run tattoo parlour, which made for great conversation and a perfect distraction.
After getting married, I worked my way through the hairdresser’s entire colour catalogue: red, blonde, light brown, dark brown, chestnut, black, blonde, burgundy - and a few rebellious mash-ups that probably violated several colour laws.
I'm sure at some point, my hairdresser was convinced I had multiple personalities, each insisting on a completely different shade.
Post-child, I eventually settled into the “respectable young mum” phase - tamer cuts, sensible colours.
Though I’ll never forget weeping in the car after asking for Jennifer Aniston's ‘Rachel’ layered style… and leaving with a hairstyle that looked far more like the star ingredient in Erin Patterson’s Beef Wellington.
Oof. 😬
In recent years, I’ve entered this whole other phase.
Beyond the sensible “mum do,” I've become a regular user of the communal office tweezers - plucking finger-length whiskers that somehow appeared overnight under my chin (why are they always so long?), wrestling with the ever-present grey flyaways curling defiantly atop my head, and attempting to evict the lone, dead-straight white “rabbit hair” that has made permanent residence in the middle of my forehead, like a stage-five clinger you just can’t shake.
I've also had to add my toes to the weekly shaving checklist.
Okay… “weekly” is probably generous - more like every few weeks. And yes, I get cold in winter, so some months… well, you do what you can okay?
Don’t forget, you’re reading and not judging here.
Chemo Hair Era
And now, here I am, entering this new chemo hair era, where my hair is falling out in actual droves.
I mean, I’ve been filling my bathroom sink twice a day with fallout since last Thursday. How I still have any hair left on my head is, frankly, a miracle at this point.
But gosh, I’m not going to lie - it’s traumatic.
Probably more than I’ve let myself admit, even to myself.
Every clump that falls feels like a piece of me is slipping away - pieces I didn’t even realise were so tangled up with who I am.
My hair has always been what makes me feel pretty and feminine, and it represents “me” to the outside world.
Now, with every strand that disappears, it feels like I’m losing a little bit of that - and losing how it made me feel beautiful.
And don't get me wrong - I was ready to accept some of the losses (goodbye, backs of my knees and moustache).
But anything above my three chins? That’s honestly hit me harder than I expected.
I’ve read, and been told, that for some people, shaving their head brings a sense of control when everything else feels out of their hands. Like they’re taking charge of the fallout before it happens, and the trauma that follows.
Maybe that time will come for me too. But not yet.
For now, I’m holding onto cautious optimism.
The cold cap therapy - which, let’s be honest, is a special kind of torture on top of chemo (45 minutes before, during, and an extra hour and a half after) - still gives me hope.
Because maybe, just maybe, with that - and the thickness and sheer volume of my hair - it will help me hang on to more than a ball sack’s worth of coverage.
Even if it’s only on the sides (I mean, I could probably rock a friar tuck, right?).
And that’s worth holding onto. Even if it’s just for a little bit longer.
But if the time comes for a complete head shave, I’ll try to remind myself that even if the hair changes, I’m still me - with or without it.
That’s what matters most. 💛
And when my hair eventually grows back down the track, I hope to remember that beauty isn’t defined by what’s on your head, but by how boldly you tackle life: messy, brave, unyielding in times of hardship, and unapologetically yourself throughout.
Also, if I’m being honest, I hope to look back and laugh too - because nothing says ‘tough’ like turning into a human chia pet and surviving to tell the tale.
For good measure – I now leave you with some photos of my hairdo’s over the years and current state of affairs…
This blog is to allow me to write a little more about it along the way. Partly to keep friends and family updated, and partly because writing has always been how I make sense of things.
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