Chopping off my long hair and what it meant for me

I was 13 years old when I decided I was going to be the gal with really, really long hair.

And that’s exactly who I was, for 18 years.

My hair was a huge part of my identity. 

Through every obstacle that comes with growing up, my hair was with me. For every milestone, my long mane remained my pride. 

So when I worked for OncoHappy, an NGO dedicated to holistic care for cancer patients, I admired every person that donated their hair to us. Throughout building a campaign dedicated to helping patients deal with hair loss, I witnessed countless individuals from all walks of life give up their tresses for the cause. 

Through my work, I learned about the effects of this consequence that comes with numerous cancer treatments. It was both alarming and humbling to learn and see first hand the impact of losing our locks— an important aspect of a lot of our identities. Statistics suggest that 47% of cancer patients consider hair loss to be one of the most traumatic aspects of their treatment. 

I remember being grateful for the hair that I had. 

And when my own sister started experiencing hair loss due to PCOS, once again I counted my blessings. It’s scary to think that physical parts of ourselves can change because of a medical diagnosis.

Once again, I counted my lucky stars (and strands). 

But these moments also sparked something else in me. I began to question my own  relationship with my hair.

Would I ever be able to give it up? 

The answer remained no, for a very long time. 

And so I nourished my tresses for a while longer and through the grief of losing the love of my life, my grandfather, my hair, once again, carried me through.  I was now entering one of the darkest stages of my life, my hair was a sort of clutch. 

Until I started therapy. 

In therapy I’ve learned to accept me in every form— the good, the bad and the ugly. It’s been a tough but rewarding journey towards healing. 

Couple of months ago, getting better took a sharp shift— there have been many specific awakenings but one particular morning I woke up knowing that my relationship with my hair had to end. It was an overwhelming instinct, something I just couldn’t brush off.  

The cancer patients I had worked with flooded my mind. My sister’s troubles consumed me, too. 

I felt the need to finally pay my luck forward. 

And so that very evening, I made an appointment with Muhammad, my talented hair dresser that maintained my really, really long hair for years, and decided to make the chop.

Before I left for the salon, I had a good long cry session where I physically hugged my hair. “Thank you for all that you’ve carried, thank you for all that you’ve given and received. Thank you for the years of companionship,” I remember whispering to my hair, in between the tears. 

But by the time I sat on the chair for the big cut, I was ready. 

Muhammad carefully braided my hair. “I want to donate it, these are the requirements,” I had already communicated beforehand. 

And at the moment his scissors met my hair, I felt nothing but bliss. Every cell in my body knew it was time. 

In the end, I managed to donate 18.5 inches of hair. 18+ inches that served as an anchor for me for 18 years. I’ve just realized the irony as I write this. 

When asked why I decided to do it, my answer was simple;

“I’ve had very long hair since I was 13 years old. My hair carried me through all the ups and downs of life. It has always been a huge part of my identity. 

In the world we live in today, feeling ‘ok’ on most days feels like a luxury. Today I’m in a good place, and that is a privilege. Which is exactly why I wanted to pay it forward. My hair has comforted me for so many years, detaching from it so it can help someone else, is an honor.”

My contribution is just one of many that gets translated into wigs for cancer patients. My work, my life, my hair, everything came full circle. 

Is there a better way to part with such an important piece of you? 

My sister’s response sealed the deal. “Since you’ve cut your hair, I realized I don’t care about my hair loss as much anymore, “ she shared in her own words.

So now I’m the gal with the really, really short hair. 

I’m glad I waited this long to do it because I need to be secure with myself to do this. Infact, I even often get asked if I’m a girl or a boy (people are weird) and while this would have bothered me just a couple of years ago, I actually find it amusing now. 

Who the hell cares if I’m a girl, boy, both or neither, anyway? “Am I kind?” is the real question to ask. 

Plus now, after 28 years of life, I’ve just discovered I have a really nice jawline and fantastic cheekbones. I used to think I had an ugly face, that I hid behind the hair. Can you believe that? 

One of my best friends, Roshini Kumar, who triumphed cancer as a child, once said, “My hair doesn’t define me, we are all more than our appearance,” and that has always stuck with me. 

But for the longest time, my hair was always my comfort, my weakness.

How could I ever give that up? 

Well, 18 years and 18 inches later I can now say— my comfort is me, it comes from within. Hair or no hair.

And giving up my long locks was a symbol of learning just that.