I Offered to Shave My Head When My Mom Went Through Chemo — Here’s Why She Said No

My mom wanted small, everyday acts of support. She didn’t need some grand gesture to make her feel loved and cared for. Being able to give her that was healing for me, too.

I was 23, a graduate student, and a single mother when my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was raising my 3-year-old son while living at home and going to night school.

Despite my own responsibilities — despite having my own child — I still relied on my mom.

I admit there were a number of practical things she helped me with: watching my son when I had evening classes, doing my taxes, and reminding me to change my oil or pay my bills when I inevitably forgot, to name a few.

More than that, she was the person I went to. When I got a flat tire, when I had a bad date, or when my son had a fever and the doctor’s office was closed, my first call was to my mom.

Finding out she had breast cancer was like finding out the Easter Bunny had breast cancer: incomprehensible.

How could she be sick when she was the one who took care of us when we were sick? Growing up, Mom was always the parent on “sick-kid” duty — the one pressing her cheek to our foreheads, taking our temperature in the middle of the night, bringing us saltines and Sprite when we couldn’t keep anything else down.

The idea of her getting sick was unthinkable. I’d never even seen her get the flu, and now she had cancer?

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Coping with the news

As a child, parents are often seen as all-knowing, all-seeing beings. These superhuman creatures somehow hold all the answers, have no flaws, and are utterly invincible.

Slowly, that idolization starts to fade as you get older. You realize that they don’t actually have eyes in the back of their head, that they’ve made mistakes, that they don’t always know the right answer.

You realize that, at the end of the day, they’re just human.

And yet, that realization only extends so far. No matter how imperfect and human they are, you may still seek their advice, comfort, and guidance. After all, you’re never too old to need your mom.

And the news that my mom had cancer only highlighted that fact.

She was diagnosed in early December with HER2-positive breast cancer. It was stage 2 but fast-growing and invasive.

I cried myself to sleep that night, suddenly aware of just how human my mom was. And, selfishly, of just how much I still needed her.

There were the expected emotions — anxiety, fear, worry, sadness. Underneath it all, there was a feeling of complete and utter helplessness. Nothing can make you feel quite as useless as a loved one with cancer.

First came chemo

Like most women with HER2-positive cancer, chemo was a necessary evil. The doctors recommended neoadjuvant chemotherapy, or undergoing chemo before surgery, due to the size and location of the cancer.

So, Mom started treatment a few days after Christmas.

First, she had four rounds of AC, an intense cocktail of two chemo drugs called Adriamycin and Cytoxan. It’s more commonly referred to in the cancer world as the “Red Devil.”

Right away, it was clear that the nickname was fitting. Soon enough, she was experiencing all the nasty side effects like nausea, vomiting, extreme fatigue, and, of course, hair loss.

As for me, that feeling of helplessness only worsened with each round of chemo she received.

Mom would come home and immediately crawl into bed, swaddled under the covers to quell the chills. She kept a trash can propped up next to her just in case she couldn’t make it to the bathroom. She lost her appetite and a few dress sizes. She was constantly cold and tired.

Even the smallest task left her feeling utterly worn out, but what I remember most is how vulnerable she looked: how small and almost fragile she seemed all of a sudden.

There’s a certain kind of fear, impossible to explain, that comes with seeing your mom like that. It’s a mixture of wanting desperately to do something — anything — to help, a childlike desire to seek maternal comfort, and a paralyzing inability to do either.

A show of support

My dad would drive Mom to all of her chemo appointments, sitting with her the whole time.

My sister went to a few of them as well. As a premed student, she knew what questions to ask and understood the terminology in a way the rest of us didn’t.

My brother was still in high school but did his best to be self-sufficient and not bother her too much.

Friends, family, and neighbors all did their part, offering takeout dinners or bringing prefrozen meals to keep on hand.

Meanwhile, I felt utterly lost and unsure of how to help.

By then, her hair had started falling out in clumps. As the clumps became thicker and more noticeable, she had my dad buzz it all off.

I should note that my mother is probably the least vain woman I know. Minimal makeup, modest clothing, simple skin care routine, and natural hair worn short without dye.

Still, when she lost her hair, I saw another side of her. Not one of vanity but insecurity.

She’s one of those lucky women whose gray is actually silver, a lovely shade that people have often complimented her on. Unfortunately, there were no silver wigs available. Or, at least, none that matched her natural hair color.

All the gray wigs looked “old-ladyish,” she said, so she chose a brown one instead, but the whole thing left her self-conscious.

As a show of support, I offered to shave my head, too. I figured that was something I could do that might help her feel less alone. Surprisingly, she said no.

Hair loss is personal

You may have seen those stories of loved ones shaving their own heads in solidarity. It’s even become a popular trope in film and television.

On-screen, the person with cancer always reacts with heartfelt gratitude. They tear up, touched that someone would do that for them, and suddenly they feel empowered. Maybe in real life, that happens sometimes, too, but not in this case.

Instead, my mom refused my offer. In fact, she was adamant.

Losing her hair had been extremely upsetting for her. She felt ugly and uncomfortable in her own skin. She hated looking in the mirror or seeing photos of herself. She would actively avoid the camera, so few pictures of her from that time even exist.

My hair, on the other hand, was long and thick, resting at my mid-back. She thought my hair was beautiful and knew that I preferred keeping it long.

So why, she asked, would she want me to sacrifice that?

She insisted she would never want me to feel as ugly and insecure as she did with no hair. Besides, it wouldn’t make her hair grow back any faster or make her feel any prettier.

It would only leave me feeling as miserable as she did, and that, she told me, would just make her feel worse.

From helpless to healing

Initially, I’d felt dejected after she refused my offer. I was back to square one, wondering what I could do other than sit back and watch her suffer, powerless in her fight.

At one point, I even told her how helpless I felt. To that, she reminded me of everything I was doing:

• going grocery shopping
• cooking, or at least trying to cook
• cleaning the house
• helping with my brother

She was touched that I’d offered to shave my head in the first place.

“It’s the sentiment that matters,” she said.

It’s been a little over 10 years now, and my mom is healthy and cancer-free. She went through 16 rounds of chemo in total, followed by surgery and radiation therapy.

Her hair grew back and eventually returned to its previous silver hue. My sister finished med school and is now a practicing internist. My brother also went into the medical field and is a neurology resident!

As for me, a few years after my mom’s recovery, I did end up cutting my hair for cancer.

Instead of buzzing it all off, I opted for something a little less dramatic: a shoulder-length do. I donated my hair (9 inches in total) to Pantene’s now-discontinued Beautiful Lengths program.

Seeing how much my mom was affected emotionally by her hair loss had a profound impact on me, and I wanted to help other women. I also wanted to celebrate my mom and her recovery.

She didn’t want me to shave my head while she was going through chemo, but she was fully on board with my hair donation once she was in remission.

That’s the thing about cancer. Everyone copes in their own way.

Support isn’t one-size-fits-all

There’s a lot of emotion involved both for the person with cancer and those who love them. Support isn’t a one-size-fits-all thing.

For some women, my offer might have been met with enthusiasm, giving them peace in knowing they weren’t alone in their baldness. Others might feel more like my mom: flattered but ultimately against it.

She wanted domestic simplicity instead of a grand gesture: someone to help fold the laundry, get the groceries, and take out the trash. She wanted small, everyday acts of support.

Knowing that and being able to give it to her was healing for me as well.