I sat in the chair with my short pixie cut—the shortest my hair had ever been. I had always worn it on the shorter side, often grazing my chin, but never like this. Inches were gone. My long blonde hair with bangs that once touched my shoulders now barely brushed my neck, shaped with a razor blade.

I had already cried as my hair fell to the floor.

Was I ready to have my head fully shaved? No. But as the toxic chemicals began their work—killing cancer cells and preparing to take my hair with them—I knew this was the next step. My husband, aunt, and mom were there for the appointment that would leave me not only with a buzz cut, but with sleep caps and a wig.

When the buzzer started, the tears returned. Each pass released another wave, rolling down my cheeks. My family wanted to take photos. I couldn’t understand why they’d want a picture of someone who didn’t feel like me. I didn’t recognize the person in the mirror. I asked them to put their phones away, and they did.

As I write this now, I wish they had snuck one.

It was a momentous day. I’d love to show my kids what a rock star I was—even if I couldn’t see it then. A few weeks later, my husband did capture a photo of me working on my computer, my buzz cut just before it turned to peach fuzz. I’m grateful for that image. I know I wouldn’t have been at the time, but pictures really are worth a thousand words.

Hair as Identity

I remember every stage of my hair more clearly than what I ate yesterday. Hair had always been part of how I defined myself. I was the girl with the bangs. Born with white-blonde hair in the ’80s, my mom styled it with bangs from the very beginning—curled under, ends tucked just right. The styles of the ’90s lived on my head.

My hair was almost always worn down, maybe with a headband or butterfly clips, sometimes half-up, half-down. Senior year of high school, I made a bold move: I grew out my bangs. It felt monumental. My forehead—previously shielded—was suddenly exposed. There was nothing wrong with it, but it felt unfamiliar.

That’s when I discovered my natural wave. I stopped heat styling every day and started wearing my hair as it was, before “natural hair” became a thing. Eventually, bangs returned. They always did.

I moved to New York City with shoulder-length wavy blonde hair and wispy bangs. Over seven years, my hair darkened as highlights became a luxury I couldn’t always afford. Life shifted.

Then, after moving to Chicago, everything changed.

When Cancer Enters the Room

I had just returned from Arizona—meeting football stars, attending a roast for Terry Bradshaw, dancing with Mr. Worldwide. In those photos, I had long blonde hair with bangs. I look back now knowing that while I was celebrating, my right breast and lymph nodes were under attack.

Treatment followed. Surgery. Radiation. Fertility challenges. Tests that pushed me physically and mentally.

And one of the first things that consumed my thoughts?

My hair.

I was going to lose the thing I believed made me Lauren.

Eventually, I began to accept it. I wore a wig every few days—one that looked as close to “me” as possible. I wish I’d experimented more with style or color, but losing my hair felt like enough change. I did, however, have fun with scarves, turbans, sleep caps, and hats. I’ve always loved hats, so I went big—wide brims for sun protection, patterns for personality.

Letting My Head Breathe

As my hair began to grow back, I found confidence in my bare scalp. I stepped outside without covering my head, letting it breathe. Yes, I got looks. But I did it for me.

As a survivor, there are moments when all I want to do is tell someone else with a bald head: You’re not alone. I’ve been there. Unless someone has alopecia, baldness often carries a story. Maybe the looks I received weren’t judgment. Maybe they were recognition.

As my hair moved through awkward stages—the bowl cut, the pixie—I covered it only when it felt uneven. Strangers began to say, “I love your haircut,” or, “You have a nicely shaped head.” I smiled at the irony. I hadn’t chosen it, but I accepted the compliments anyway.

I found unexpected empowerment in embracing how I looked.

Redefining Beauty

Growing up, appearance mattered. I’m grateful for that awareness—but cancer taught me something deeper. What’s inside matters more.

For my 30th birthday, I went to a Lady A concert completely bald. No scarf. No hat. Thousands of people around me in Tinley Park as I sang along to Need You Now and Where It All Begins. It was wildly outside my comfort zone—and incredibly freeing.

When my hair grew back, it came in dark and curly. I embraced every stage. I wore it natural. I stressed less about makeup and more about skincare. I gained time—time I once spent styling, now spent living.

When my hair finally reached my chin, I celebrated. I had worried it wouldn’t come back. But it did—thick and dark. Different, but mine. Eventually, I added blonde highlights again. Navigating my commitment to clean and organic living, balayage became my go-to—no scalp contact, more ease.

I’ve had bangs and grown them out. Long hair and short. Accessories and simplicity.

What matters now is comfort. Authenticity. Finding myself—not in my hair alone, but in how I care for myself.

These days, it’s a hairstyle, a hair accessory, and a little lip gloss.

And that’s more than enough.