Sitting in front of the mirror in my New York apartment, I saw a reflection I hardly recognised. I looked sick. My hair was so thin, large patches of my scalp showed through. My eyebrows and eyelashes were practically gone, too. This wasn't me, I thought. It felt like a nightmare. But it wasn't.
Until this moment, I had never realised how much my hair had been intertwined with my identity.
I picked up the clippers I had borrowed from my father and I raised them to my head. At the moment the buzzing metal hit my skin, a giant clap of thunder rang out. Rain began to fall outside as what was left of my hair fell to the floor.
Just three weeks earlier, I had bouncy blonde locks that I could gather into a ponytail or curl into ringlets. I half-heartedly complained about bad hair days but I never really had any. Sure, I had my little insecurities, like most women, about my thighs and my nose, but my hair had never been one of them.
