Mojo and the Mess

The chemo shave didn’t happen dramatically.

There was no big decision, no brave speech. Just a moment where the hair in my hands felt worse than the idea of it being gone. Losing it slowly felt cruel. Shaving it felt honest.

My husband stood with me. Quiet. Close. Not trying to fix anything. Just making sure I wasn’t alone while something important fell away.

I didn’t feel empowered.

I didn’t feel strong.

I felt sad. And relieved. And strangely calm.

That’s the part people don’t always say out loud.

Hair loss during chemo isn’t just cosmetic. It’s not just about appearance. It’s about identity. It’s about seeing someone sick in the mirror when you still feel like yourself on the inside. It’s about grieving something small that represents something much bigger.

If you’re facing hair loss right now—whether it’s thinning, shedding, or the moment you’re deciding whether to shave—here are a few things I wish someone had told me.

If you’re losing your hair

You’re allowed to choose how this happens.

Some people wait. Some shave early. Some cut it short first. There is no right way—only what feels least painful for you.

Hair loss can be emotional even if you “expected” it.

Knowing it’s coming doesn’t make it easier. You’re allowed to grieve it without feeling vain or dramatic.

Your reactions will change day to day.

Some days you won’t care. Other days it will hit you out of nowhere. Both are normal.

Protect your scalp early.

Gentle shampoo, soft pillowcases, hats or scarves that don’t rub. Your scalp may be more sensitive than you expect.

You don’t owe anyone positivity.

You don’t have to see it as empowering. You don’t have to find the silver lining. Neutral is enough. Honest is enough.

Most importantly: hair loss does not mean you are disappearing.

You are still you—under the hats, under the scarves, under the shock of the mirror.

The chemo shave didn’t make me braver. It didn’t make me stronger.

It just marked a moment where cancer took something visible—and I stayed anyway.

If you’re here, reading this because you’re scared of what’s coming or mourning what’s already gone, I see you. You’re not shallow for caring. You’re not weak for hurting. And you’re not alone in this, even when it feels deeply personal.

Before you go

If you’d like to stay connected, you can subscribe so new posts come to you when I’m able to write them. No pressure—just honesty, when I have it.

If you’re looking for support or resources, or want to help keep Mojo & The Mess going, those links are always available on the site. They exist for the hard days—for me, and for you.

I’m glad you’re here.

Stay messy.

— Izzy 🖤