I stared at the stranger in the mirror, barely recognizing the person looking back at me. Hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, and patchy wisps of hair where lush locks once cascaded. This wasn’t me. This couldn’t be me. But it was. I’m Polly, and a year ago, my world shattered when I heard those dreaded words: “You have cancer.” 

The journey since then has been a rollercoaster of pain, fear, and hope. I’ve endured countless chemo sessions, each one stripping away another piece of my former self. The most visible casualty? My hair.

I ran my fingers over my scalp, feeling the uneven patches.

A lump of grief settled in my heart as I remembered brushing my long, silky hair just months ago. Now, it was a painful reminder of everything cancer had taken from me.

“You’ve got this, Pol,” I whispered to my reflection, trying to summon the strength I desperately needed. “One day at a time.”

The sun beat down mercilessly as I stepped outside, tugging my scarf tighter around my head. Even in the sweltering heat, I couldn’t bear to expose my scalp to the world.

The thought of the stares, the whispers, the pitying looks… it was too much.

As I walked down the street, a group of kids on bikes whizzed past. One of them, a freckle-faced boy, pointed and shouted, “Look! It’s the human soccer ball!”

His friends erupted in laughter, the sound piercing through me like shards of glass. I quickened my pace, blinking back tears.

“Hey, baldy!” another voice called out. “Did you lose a bet or something?”

I wanted to scream, to tell them about the endless nights of nausea, the bone-deep fatigue, the fear that gripped me every time I thought about my next scan. But instead, I kept walking, head down, praying for invisibility.

When I finally reached the safety of my apartment, I collapsed against the door, letting the tears flow freely. “Why me?” I sobbed, sliding to the floor. “Why did it have to be me?”

Days passed, blending into a blur of doctor’s appointments and sleepless nights. With each chemo session, more of my hair fell out, leaving behind a patchy mess that only amplified my feelings of vulnerability.

One morning, I made a decision. I couldn’t control the cancer, but I could control this. I picked up my phone with trembling hands and dialed the number for Wonder Salon.

“Wonder Salon, this is Tony speaking. How can I help you today?”

I took a deep breath, running my hand over the tiny wisps of hair still clinging to my scalp. “Hi, Tony. It’s Polly. I… I need to shave my head completely. These last few strands, they’ve got to go.”

There was a pause on the other end. When Tony spoke again, his voice was gentle. “Of course, Polly. We’ll take good care of you. How’s tomorrow at 2 p.m.?”

“Perfect,” I whispered, feeling a pang of relief and dread. “Thank you, Tony.”

As I hung up, I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror. “Tomorrow,” I told my reflection, “we take back control.”

The next day, I pushed open the door to Wonder Salon, my heart pounding.

The familiar smell of shampoo and hair products hit me, and for a moment, I was transported back to happier times… getting highlights for prom, a fancy updo for my best friend’s wedding.

Now, I was here to lose the last remnants of my hair.

Tony greeted me with a warm smile. “Hey there, Polly. Ready for your new look?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He led me to a chair. Not my usual one, I noticed. And draped a cape around my shoulders.

“This chair’s a bit different,” Tony explained, noticing my confusion. “Your regular one’s getting fixed. But don’t worry, we’ll have you looking fabulous in no time.”

As Elvis crooned softly in the stereo in the background, Tony got to work.

I closed my eyes, feeling the gentle buzz of the clippers against my scalp. With each pass, I felt lighter, as if I was shedding more than just hair.

“You know,” Tony said, his voice cutting through my thoughts, “I had an aunt who went through this. Toughest woman I ever knew. And let me tell you, Polly, you’ve got that same strength in you. I can see it.”

I opened my eyes, meeting Tony’s gaze in the mirror. “Really?” I asked, my voice barely above a breath.

“Absolutely,” he nodded, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’re a fighter, Polly. And this? This is your battle armor.”

For the first time in weeks, I felt a genuine smile tug at my lips. “Thank you, Tony,” I said, feeling a spark of hope ignite in my chest. “Thank you.”

Just as Tony was finishing up, the salon door burst open. A large man with a scowl etched on his face stormed in, heading straight for us.

“Hey!” he barked, tapping impatiently on the back of my chair. “That’s my seat. Move it!”

I froze, caught off guard by his aggression. Tony stepped forward, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced by a protective stance.

“Sir,” he said calmly, “I’m almost done with Polly here. If you could just wait a few minutes—”

“I don’t have a few minutes,” the man snapped. “I have an important meeting, and I need my hair done now. In MY chair.”

I almost stood, not wanting to cause trouble, but Tony placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, keeping me seated.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait your turn,” Tony said firmly. “Polly’s appointment isn’t finished yet.”

The man’s face turned an alarming shade of red. He glared at me, his eyes raking over my bald head.

“What’s the hold up anyway? Not like she’s got any hair left to cut.”

His sarcastic words pierced my heart. I felt my eyes start to water, all the insecurities I’d been battling rushing back in full force.

The man sneered, then turned his attention back to me. “You, bald eagle, get outta my chair. Guess it’s easier to deal with a bald head when you’re broke than having to take care of long hair, huh?”

Tony’s face flushed with anger. “She has cancer, sir,” he said through gritted teeth.

But the rude man wasn’t listening. “Mind your own business, buster! I’m a regular customer. Nobody asked you. Or are you her lawyer or something?”

He turned back to me, his eyes cold. “What are you waiting for, dinner to be served, baldie? Out of my chair!”

I couldn’t take it anymore. With tears welling up in my eyes, I bolted from the chair and rushed to the bathroom, leaving Tony to deal with the awful man.

The rude man pushed past me, practically jumping into the chair.

“Finally,” he grumbled. “Make it quick, I’m already late.”

In the safety of the bathroom stall, I let the tears flow freely. I sobbed for a good ten minutes, my whole body shaking.

Cancer wasn’t my fault. It was simply a test of my resilience and courage. And I was determined to come out on top. But how could people like that man be so heartless and inconsiderate?

How could they mock someone like me, fighting every single day to survive and reclaim my life? How could they? How?

I took deep breaths, trying to calm myself. “You’re stronger than this, Polly,” I whispered. “Don’t let him win.”

Wiping away my tears, I emerged from the bathroom. Broken… but stronger. As I approached the main salon area, I FROZE at the sight that greeted my eyes.

The oblivious man reclined, lost in bliss from a head massage, his eyes covered by a sleeping mask as Tony worked his “magic.”

I gasped when I saw the haircut taking shape. Picture a porcupine caught in a lawnmower — that’s exactly what the man’s new hairdo resembled. To top it off, Tony finished with a garish coat of neon pink hair dye.

I almost burst out laughing, but catching notice of me, Tony gestured for silence and winked.

When he finally announced he was done, the rude guy’s eyes flew open. His jaw dropped as he stared at his reflection in horror.

“WHAT… WHAT HAVE YOU DONE??” he shrieked.

Tony feigned innocence. “I’m sorry, sir. I thought this was what you wanted. You said to be quick, and this is our fastest style.”

The man exploded, demanding to see the manager and threatening lawsuits.

But when Mr. Gibbs, the salon owner, arrived, Tony calmly explained how the man had been rude and insulting to a cancer patient.

Mr. Gibbs turned to the man, his expression stern. “Sir, I suggest you take the free head shave we’re offering and leave quietly with the refund. Unless you’d prefer we discuss your behavior with the cops?”

Defeated, the man slumped in the chair, allowing Tony to shave his head completely bald. As he stormed out of the salon, I couldn’t help but call after him.

“Hey, Mr. Rude! Welcome to the bald club. Hope you’ve got a good hat collection!”

“Sir, you might want to return the cape. It belongs to the salon!” Tony added, his voice dripping with sarcasm as the rude guy hurled the cape back into the salon and stormed away.

The door slammed behind him, and for a moment, the salon was silent. Then, Tony, Mr. Gibbs, and I burst into laughter.

As I left the salon that day, I felt lighter than I had in months. My journey was far from over, but I realized something important: my strength wasn’t in my hair, or even in my body. It was in my spirit, in the kindness of people like Tony, and in the knowledge that for every cruel person out there, there are so many more who will stand up and fight alongside you. 

I touched my smooth head, feeling the warmth of the sun on my scalp for the first time. “Look out, world,” I whispered. “Polly’s back, and she’s stronger than ever.”