Fighting cancer took more from me than just my hair. But when a cruel stranger mocked my baldness at a hair salon, my hairdresser’s brilliant revenge gave me back something priceless: my dignity.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, hardly recognizing the hollow-eyed, sunken-cheeked person staring back. Gone were the lush, cascading locks I once took for granted. Instead, there were uneven patches of hair that reminded me daily of the toll cancer had taken. My name is Polly, and a year ago, my world shattered with three simple words: “You have cancer.”
The journey since then had been an overwhelming rollercoaster of fear, pain, and fragile hope. Chemotherapy stripped away not just my strength but my sense of self. The most obvious casualty? My hair.
Running my fingers over my patchy scalp, I remembered the simple joy of brushing my long hair, just months ago. Now, it was a bitter reminder of everything cancer had stolen from me.
“You can do this, Pol,” I whispered to my reflection, trying to summon some courage. “One day at a time.”
The day was scorching hot, but I couldn’t bring myself to go outside without covering my head. I wrapped my scarf tighter, dreading the stares and whispers from strangers who couldn’t possibly understand. As I walked down the street, a group of boys zoomed past on bikes. One boy pointed at me and yelled, “Look, it’s the human soccer ball!” His friends burst into laughter, each word cutting through me like a knife.
I quickened my pace, blinking back tears. Another kid yelled, “Hey, baldy! Did you lose a bet?” My heart pounded, and I fought the urge to scream back at them, to tell them about the sleepless nights, the sickness, and the scans that haunted me. Instead, I kept walking, head down, praying to disappear.
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