Shampoo Commercial Dreams
I don’t like a lot of things about myself; I’m one of those people who intrinsically dismiss their value and worth due to a less-than-optimal and abusive upbringing. But there’s one thing I do love about myself despite a long and tangled history: my thick, naturally curly (though often worn straight), shiny, healthy, unique auburn hair. It took me a while to fall in love with my hair, though; our relationship has been a bit unruly, to say the least. When I was younger, I absolutely hated it.
When my stepmother entered the picture, she was jealous of my hair. She had very thin, straight-as-an-arrow, matte black hair. So, in an effort to make herself feel better, she forced me to keep my hair short. She brought me to get cheap haircuts in someone’s house over a bathroom sink. The person cutting my hair was harsh, raking a comb deep into my scalp and thinning it out with a razor. I ended up with messy layers and a cut that fueled the fire of the mean kids at school. Being a redhead with pale skin, and frumpy clothes — thanks to my stepmom — made me an easy target. The kids had a field day teasing me. To top it off, I was the “kid whose mom died.” There was plenty of material for them to work with.
Before those elementary school years, when my mom was still alive, she loved my hair. Her friends and relatives gushed over my curly locks. She kept my hair long, and from what I recall, I loved it. One of my faint, happy memories of her is stroking my hair to help me relax and fall asleep. Throughout much of my school years, I was ridiculed for my hair. As a redhead, I was often stereotyped as ginger and associated with labels like "soul-sucking vampire" and "witch." In high school, I was given the award “Big Red” and even received a pack of cinnamon gum at the band awards ceremony — what an "honor."
Despite that, when I turned 16, I began to take control. I told my stepmom I was growing my hair out. My dad, whose main presence in my life was to terrorize me, actually had my back on this. My stepmom wasn’t pleased. At the time, I didn’t know much about hair care, but I made an effort and started blow-drying it straight, even though it still had a mind of its own. Despite the challenges, I began to like my hair. I liked it so much that I would stand in front of the mirror with my freshly blown-out hair, mimicking women from a popular shampoo commercial. I would flip my hair and sing Aretha Franklin’s “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman.” It became my secret dream to be in a hair commercial. Whenever I share this with people, they would say they can totally see it.
Fast forward a few years and a close friend introduced me to the most magical tool in the world: the flat iron. Oh, my dear flat iron, where had you been all my life? With it, I could wear my hair straight, light, and manageable. Don’t get me wrong, I still rocked my curls sometimes, but the flat iron gave me options. My hair felt lighter, and my confidence was expanding.
As an adult, the comments about my hair shifted. The cruel jokes turned into admiration. People started to gush over my hair’s unique color and shine. The change in how others saw my hair mirrored my own growing appreciation. My love-hate relationship with my hair was now weighing much more on the love side.
Then I was diagnosed with cancer. Chemo threatened to take my hair away, and the thought was devastating. My hair was such a huge part of my identity. People would say, “It’s just hair; it’ll grow back,” but to me, it wasn’t just hair. It was a huge part of who I was. One friend, who had not seen me in a while and was also going through her own cancer journey at the time, admitted that she hadn’t understood why I was so upset about potentially losing my hair. When she finally saw me, she said, “Oh, damn. Yeah, your hair is gorgeous — I get it now.” That acknowledgment meant so much to me.
It validated how deeply I felt about my hair being part of my identity and how losing it would have been more than just a cosmetic change; it would have been like losing a part of myself.
Even though the idea of wearing fun-colored wigs was somewhat entertaining, I’d already discovered that no other hair color looked good on me. Plus, bandanas and hats? Not my thing. And don’t even get me started on the bald look — I tested it with an app, and it was not cute. I do not have the face for it, trust me.
Thank God someone told me about cold capping. I researched the hell out of it, joined Facebook groups, and got a donation from a nonprofit to help cover the cost. Sitting with a freezing cap on my head for four to eight hours during chemo wasn’t fun, but I was willing to do whatever it took. Clumps of hair still fell out, and I was terrified it wouldn’t work. But I followed all the advice, treated my hair gently, and leaned on the love and support of my boyfriend, who stroked my hair like a kitty, just as my mom used to. I think that love helped more than anything. Despite losing so much, my thick hair worked in my favor. Its natural volume helped hide the thinning, and most people couldn’t even tell I’d lost half of it.
23For me, though, every strand that fell felt like another piece of my identity slipping away.
The loss was hard. Seeing my hair grow back scraggly and thin constantly reminded me of what I’d been through. Eventually, I decided to chop it into a bob — a style I’d sworn off after standing up to my stepmom years ago. At that moment, it wasn’t about the length; it was about reclaiming some control. Cancer had the upper hand in this battle, but I was grateful to have hair at all.
Now, two years post-chemo, my hair has almost completely grown back. The shortest layers from where it fell out touch my shoulders, and the rest hangs a couple of inches past that. It’s thick, shiny, and healthy — just like before. Surviving cancer was brutal, but keeping my hair felt like holding onto a piece of myself through the chaos. My hair has been a symbol of resilience — something I could hold onto even when so much else felt out of my control. It reminds me of the strength I’ve carried through life, from childhood adversity to facing cancer head-on.
I haven’t made it into a hair commercial yet but with my hair back in all its glory, who knows? That dream is still alive. So, my advice is, if your hair feels like a substantial part of your identity, don’t let anyone minimize that — cold capping gave me a chance to hold on to that part of mine, and it was worth every freezing second. 🌿
Bethany Zoe
Nonprofit Consultant. Diagnosed at 40. Stage II, IDC, Triple Positive.
Bethany finds joy and healing in caring for animals, fostering cats, and cherishing her own feline companions. An aspiring conservationist with a Master's in Wildlife and Environmental Sustainability, she is passionate about protecting wildlife and developing sustainable solutions to preserve natural ecosystems for future generations.
“Shampoo Commercial Dreams” was published in Wildfire Journal’s 2025 “Hair” issue. Read the full issue; available in the shop and subscribers’ library.