”Are You Winning?”
After a morning of tests at the hospital, it was getting close to lunchtime. Although I rarely eat lunch, today I was making an exception. I was starving and decided to grab a pizza on the way home.
I arrived at the pizzeria a bit early, but proceeded to head on inside to wait for my order. After a few minutes, a middle aged man walked in and made his way to the counter. As the young man behind the counter approached to take the man’s order, the man gruffly stated, “Four slices and two Dews.”
Once the man paid, he turned around and started walking towards the bench where I was sitting. Instead of sitting down, he stood looking down at me and asked, “Are you winning?”
Confused, I said, “Excuse me?”
He repeated, “Are you winning?”
Seeing the bewildered look on my face, he grabbed the collar of his sweatshirt and pulled it to the side. Then he pointed at his chest just underneath his collarbone.
I was now even more befuddled, and at that point, he pointed at my head and said something about “chemo.”
Then it dawned on me. He had been pointing at the area on his chest where a chemo port would be placed. He thought I was undergoing chemotherapy.
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
Fine, thin hair had always been my reality, and as much as I complained about it, I also knew what was lurking ahead. I didn’t need a crystal ball to know what was coming because maternal lineage seemed to predict my future; both mother and grandmother had lost their hair, making mine a ticking time bomb. As expected, my thirties ushered in thinning locks. Rogaine offered a glimmer of hope that was quickly extinguished; it didn’t work for me.
Through my thirties and forties, my hair thinned further, a subtle change with each year. However, a new medication for my inflammatory arthritis, known for its hair loss side effect, accelerated the process. Then, 2022 brought another culprit—a new drug to chip away at my already fragile mane. Bald patches emerged, forcing me to avert my gaze from the mirror. By early 2023, panic set in.
Dermatologists prescribing finasteride and oral minoxidil for women offered a beacon of hope. Frantically, I searched for one willing to prescribe these miracle drugs. The urgency was palpable; I needed them now.
Meanwhile, wigs seemed like a potential solution. So, I bought a couple of cheap ones from Shein. While passable on the surface, they were a constant source of discomfort. Wearing one felt like a lie, the fear of being “found out” ever-present. Plus, the physical sensation made them unbearable.
But my reflection was unbearable too. Years of ignoring the truth finally reached a breaking point. The urgency morphed into desperation. Finding a dermatologist, buying wigs—everything had to happen immediately! Luckily, a familiar voice of reason intervened.
The Decision
Waking up one morning, a newfound clarity washed over me. The dermatologist route, even if successful, offered no guarantees. And wigs? Never. Freedom and comfort were non-negotiable, and wigs represented their antithesis. Accepting this truth brought peace, and with it, the solution: I would shave my head.
This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. The idea had lingered for years, the fear of actually doing it outweighing the desire. But now I had reached a tipping point. The thought of being seen in public with my thin, wispy hair along with my bald patches was much more distressing than the thought of stepping out with a shaved head. In fact, I felt that shaving my head would improve my appearance.
I immediately felt peace with my decision and wanted my head shaved yesterday. However, I didn’t feel comfortable doing it myself, and Sam would be in New Zealand for two more months. May couldn’t come soon enough! But eventually it did.
Within a week of coming home, Sam shaved my head. Well, first I went the Angelica Pickles route and cut chunks of my hair off hoping it would make Sam’s job easier:
After I butchered my hair, there was no going back. At that point, I was simultaneously too afraid to follow through, while wanting it done and over with already. Finally, I gave Sam permission to begin. Soon enough, my wish was granted, and I once again had to muster courage—this time to look into the mirror. It was seriously one of the hardest things I ever had to do. I had no idea how I’d look, and if I hated it…well, too bad.
I finally forced my self to look…
And I looked good! I looked so much better without my sad, stringy Benjamin Franklin hair! It would definitely take some time to become accustomed to seeing myself with a shaved head, but I would get there.
The next hurdle was that first time in public, which happened to be a trip to Costco. Despite feeling anything but confident, I walked in with my head held high as I always do. I learned from my cat that one should never display weakness in the wild.
With each step, my confidence grew. No one seemed to give a rat’s ass about the lady with no hair. And once we got that first trip out of the way, I pretty much forgot about my hair—or lack thereof—whenever we went out. And from that day on, not one person remarked on my hair, nor did anyone give me funny looks. I’m sure people were looking at me, but they were discreet.
Exposure to Foot in Mouth Disorder
So imagine my surprise today—nine months after shaving my head for the first time—when the gruff man at the pizzeria mistook me for a cancer patient.
Once I finally realized what the man was saying, I was able to respond. “Oh no,” I replied matter of factly, “I was going bald so I shaved my head.”
He was embarrassed.
Good.
I wasn’t offended. In fact, it didn’t bother me in the least. However, unlike Whitney Houston, I’m not every woman. I’m sure plenty of women would have strong feelings about being approached in such a manner, and their feelings would be justified.
The man remained silent for a minute or two before he began explaining to me that he had lost many loved ones to cancer, and he, himself, was a cancer survivor. When he meets cancer patients, he likes to show them solidarity.
All he is really showing, however, is ignorance. Because you can bet if I was dealing with cancer, the last thing I’d want is some ignoramus pointing out my bald head and asking me if I was “winning.” What if I wasn’t winning? What if my cancer was terminal and the chemotherapy was only buying me some time? What if I was straight up losing?
Even if I was “winning,” I wouldn’t want some jackass pointing out just one more thing I had lost due to cancer—especially my hair. Would you point at a woman’s chest after she had a double mastectomy and ask her if she had “won”? No? Good. Let’s not comment on her hair either.
In fact, let’s not comment on a person’s appearance at all. Your harmless gesture of “solidarity,” your “compliment,” or your observations [I’m looking at you, Margaret…and you too, mammography tech. Don’t even ask about the second one.] are unwarranted, unhelpful, and potentially hurtful.
A seemingly innocent remark like “Are you winning?” can land like a sucker punch, dredging up anxieties and vulnerabilities about their health, self-image, or past traumas. It’s not just about respecting personal boundaries; it’s about acknowledging that every comment, however well-intentioned, carries the potential to inflict unintended harm.
Our Story, Our Terms
Imagine your body as a storybook, each wrinkle, freckle, and strand of hair a chapter woven into the tapestry of your existence. Some chapters whisper of laughter and sun-kissed days, while others bear the marks of struggles overcome and battles fought.
Every person carries their own unique narrative, and while some chapters may be open for casual browsing, others deserve the privacy of closed covers. When we comment on someone’s appearance, we’re essentially reaching for a page they haven’t invited us to read, potentially intruding on a part of their story they’d rather keep hidden.
It’s not just about respecting boundaries; it’s understanding that appearances are fleeting snapshots, and the most meaningful connections are forged through empathy, not unsolicited commentary. Remember, the kindest words don’t always land gracefully, and sometimes, the most respectful response is simply to let someone’s story unfold on its own terms.
My own story has been unfolding for 50 years, and my appearance bears witness to this. My body is covered in stretch marks, and my skin sags. My abdomen is marred by ugly scars left by several surgical procedures. My teeth have yellowed, and my face is showing its age. And, yeah, I have no hair. These are the marks of an often-difficult life, but a life well lived, nonetheless.
These marks tell my story, etched in scars & wrinkles instead of words. They whisper of resilience, of challenges overcome, and of chapters yet to be written. In a world obsessed with fleeting perfection, my imperfections stand as defiant reminders of the battles I’ve fought. My appearance may not conform to societal expectations, but it represents a life lived authentically, with all its triumphs and tribulations. And while I am not ashamed of my appearance, it’s also not up for discussion.
If I choose to share a chapter of my story with you, like I am here today, then we can have a discussion about it. However, my bald head just existing, does not give you an open invitation to pry into my life. I don’t owe you that privilege just because you’re not used to seeing a woman with a shaved head. Do better.
Respect the Hidden Chapters
And sir? Yes, I am winning. Every time, I step out of my house, I am doing so with confidence, despite my interactions with people like you who insist on saying the quiet parts out loud. I’ve been through too much in this life to suffer fools like you. I used to, but not anymore. At age 50, despite my challenges, I’m out here living my best life—shaved head and all.
We really need to start a conversation about empathy and respect—challenging the impulse to comment on appearances. Instead, let’s embrace diversity and empower each other to tell our own stories, on our own terms. My shaved head may spark questions, but I hope it also sparks a deeper understanding: true beauty lies not in conformity, but in the courage to be authentically ourselves.
Do not be afraid to embrace who you are—fully & wholeheartedly. At the same time, with empathy & respect, afford others that same privilege. That sometimes means knowing when to keep your mouth shut. I bet you the gruff man wishes he would have kept his shut.
As the gruff man exited the pizzeria with his four slices & two Dews, he bid me a good day. I responded in kind. I knew he was still extremely embarrassed, which amused me. Hopefully he learned a lesson.
