Hair Loss | Turns Out the Red Devil Hates Blondes

It is a strange kind of grief to watch pieces of yourself disappear in real time.

Humbling too. Intimidating.

Because by nature, all of us are constantly trying to protect ourselves. We protect the people we love, the lives we’ve built, the tiny routines and comforts that make us feel like us. We cling tightly to the things that help form our identity because they feel familiar and safe.

And obviously, on the deepest level, there are losses in life so devastating they crack a person wide open. Losing a parent. A child. A sibling. Someone woven into your existence so tightly they feel like an extension of your own body.

But identity loss also shows up in quieter ways too. Smaller ways. Ways that might seem silly to some people until they experience it themselves.

For me, one of those things was my hair.

And listen, I fully understand there are people who could shave their heads on a random Tuesday and feel completely unbothered. I admire those people deeply. Truly. Could not be me.

Because my hair has always been tied to how I express myself. It was part of my routine, part of my confidence, part of the version of myself I recognized in the mirror. Every six weeks I had my appointments. I bought the expensive hair products. I kept the blonde fresh and icy and impossibly high maintenance for absolutely no logical reason other than: it made me feel pretty.

Even on the messiest days, my hair was always done. Clean. Styled. Intentional.

Then came chemotherapy.

More specifically, the “Red Devil.” Which honestly sounds less like a medication and more like a Monster Jam truck.

Before treatment even started, they warned me this would happen. They explained that while the chemotherapy attacks the cancer cells, hair follicles become collateral damage in the process. Necessary destruction. Survival over vanity.

I understood that logically.

Emotionally was a different story.

Over the last week, my hair started coming out in handfuls. Every time I touched it, more strands slid between my fingers. I’d stand in front of the mirror inspecting my roots like some emotionally unstable wildlife investigator trying to track the rapid expansion of bald spots.

And somehow, the moment that finally sent me over the edge wasn’t even dramatic.

I was vacuuming.

That’s it. Just vacuuming my house like a regular adult trying to maintain the illusion that life was still normal. Then I heard this awful noise coming from the vacuum. So naturally, I turned it off and flipped it over expecting maybe a Lego or some random item my toddler had left for me to discover.

No.

The brush underneath was completely wrapped in massive amounts of blonde hair. Enough hair to stop the vacuum from spinning altogether,

which felt a little symbolic.

The cancer was literally clogging my vacuum cleaner now too. Incredible. Love that for me.

At that point, I knew it was time.

Cassie has done my hair for years. And I knew if anyone was going to walk me through this part of the process, it had to be her.

There’s something incredibly vulnerable about sitting in that chair knowing you are about to physically remove a piece of your identity. But she handled every second of it with so much gentleness and dignity and care. She never rushed me. Never pushed me. She let me stay in control the entire time.

That matters more than people realize.

And somehow, she even made space for Max to be part of it too.

He helped shave my head, which sounds absolutely unhinged when typed out like that, but it became one of the most unexpectedly meaningful moments of this entire experience. What could have been traumatic and heartbreaking somehow became lighter. Softer. Almost empowering.

Her kindness will remain a piece of my story that will never be forgotten.

Thank you, Cassie.

Instead of waiting helplessly for chemotherapy to take my hair from me piece by piece, I made the choice myself.

I beat the Red Devil to the punch.

Now listen, I’m not going to sit here and pretend this hasn’t been hard. This side effect has been one of the most emotionally difficult parts of this diagnosis for me since April. I know I will not wake up every morning radiating confidence and inner peace like some bald motivational speaker standing barefoot in a field at sunrise. Looking in the mirror feels different.

I hate this part.

I don’t feel like myself yet. I don’t feel beautiful every second. I don’t feel fully confident. And I’d be lying straight through my teeth if I told you otherwise.

You probably won’t see me showing off the bald head very often. I’ll wear hats. I’ll wear wigs. I’ll do whatever helps me feel comfortable while I navigate this version of myself.

But I give myself grace because I know that’s okay, too.

Somehow, somewhere in the middle of all of this, life quietly shifted my perspective in ways I never saw coming.

When your life is suddenly measured in scans, aggressive treatment plans, and hope… the material pieces of who you are start to loosen their grip on you. Not because they never mattered, but because you realize how fragile and temporary they always were.

The things that once felt so important become softer around the edges. Smaller and less urgent. And in their place the things that truly make you feel alive somehow become impossibly clear.

Hair grows back.

Life doesn’t always.

There was never a moment where my husband stepped back in fear or hesitation. Not one.

While my entire world felt like it was collapsing in slow motion, he quietly stepped closer. We have stood beside each other through every version of life imaginable. Through the beautiful moments that felt magical and unforgettable, and through the ugly, painful, life-altering moments that brought us to our knees. We have loved each other in seasons of joy, and we have fought for each other in seasons of survival.

Because real love is not only found in the easy moments. Real love reveals itself when life becomes uncertain, terrifying, and unbearably heavy.

It shows up when accountability has to be faced from every direction, even within ourselves. Even when hard conversations have to happen. Even when mistakes, grief, fear, and growth all collide at once. And somehow through all of it, love still prevails.

Some people love loudly. Some people fill the room with speeches and promise and perfectly crafted words that fall upon deaf ears. Although his words of love and affirmation exist and his positivity is poured into me on a daily basis; he more importantly loves through action. Through unprompted sacrifice. Through consistency. By the way he reaches for my hand in waiting rooms even without being physically present because our unique circumstances do not allow it.

He has held me with his words, gentleness, and kindness while I cried so hard, I could barely breathe or make out the words. He has looked at me on the days I felt completely broken and somehow still seen me as beautiful. Still worthy. Still me. Still the woman he is madly in love with. I don’t think he even fully understands the depth of safety that gives me right now. Marrying him is the greatest decision and being his wife is a privilege I will never take for granted.

Because cancer changes things. It strips you down emotionally, physically, mentally. It forces you to look at yourself differently. There are moments where you barely recognize your own reflection, your own life, your own future.

Thank you, my love, for loving me in every single way a human being possibly can. Even from afar when life pulls us in twelve different directions at once. Even in exhaustion. Even in fear. Even when neither of us has the answers. You are the most incredible man I have ever known.

Not only are you my twin flame, my best friend, and my safe place, but watching you be the father of our son has been the greatest joy of my entire life. There is something so grounding about knowing the little boy we created together gets to grow up with you as his example of what love looks like.

Together we have already survived things that could have destroyed us. Loss. Fear. Pressure. Heartbreak. The kind of pain some people never experience in an entire lifetime.

And now life has thrown another impossible mountain in front of us without warning.

But if this experience has taught me anything already, it’s this:

Love becomes very real when life gets terrifying.

And when I look at him, I know with absolute certainty that no matter how dark this road gets, I will never have to walk it alone.

The same can be said for my mom.

This woman has stood beside me through every single chapter of my life without hesitation. Every positive, every heartbreak, every mistake, every milestone, every version of me, she has been there through all of it.

And I know this diagnosis has shattered pieces of her too.

Now that I am a mother myself, I cannot begin to comprehend the helplessness of watching your child go through the process of an illness and not being able to physically take the pain away from them. There is something uniquely cruel about a mother having to watch her child battle cancer while standing there empty handed, wishing with everything inside of her that she could trade places instead.

But even in her own fear and heartbreak, she still shows up for me every single day.

She is the loudest person cheering for me for my accomplishments, and she is also the person quietly holding me while makeup, tears, and exhaustion melt onto her shoulder after the weight of reality becomes too much to carry alone.

That is who she is. This is who she has always been. Steadfast. Unwavering.

She is a mother in every sense of the word.

Watching her love my son so fiercely on top of loving me the way she always has is also one of the greatest gifts of my life.

She is the kind of mom and grandma people spend their entire lives hoping to have.

And I will spend the rest of mine grateful that I do.

The hair will grow back, and the love and appreciation for each other will continue to grow stronger amongst us all.

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A small heartfelt registry linked below:

Makenzee’s Registry