Laughing Together
My stomach sank a little every time the numbers changed on the outdoor temperature screen. I was excited about the trip, but I was dreading leaving the air-conditioned bus. My boyfriend and I were heading south to meet with friends for a weekend of camping and swimming, a tradition stretching back more than 20 years that I was determined not to miss. At least that was the plan.
The white and yellow houses announced our destination, a village on Alentejo’s coast. I stepped out of the bus, and the hot dry air filled my lungs and burned my skin, triggering a hot flash that radiated to my now crimson face. We were in the middle of a heatwave, and it was my first post-menopausal summer.
We took refuge in a nearby café and complained about the heat. My boyfriend took out his phone and checked the forecast on multiple weather apps, and it didn’t look good. I felt like a child afraid of the dark who doesn’t say anything when her mother turns off the light and says good night. I didn’t want to ruin our plans. I didn’t want to disappoint my boyfriend or myself. Three months into my MBC diagnosis, I had decided that it would not keep me from going camping with friends.
Not knowing what to do, I went to the bathroom. After washing up, I used my wet hands to soak the nape of my neck to cool off and realized how long my hair was at the back. I had wanted to shave it off, as I do every summer, but I didn’t have time before coming. It had grown a few centimeters, not enough to put it up, but enough to feel like a warm blanket glued to my head. I realized I had to do something about it; I knew shaving it would bring immediate relief. I left my boyfriend in the café and went looking for a hairdresser.
The streets were almost empty; people were keeping away from the heat. I found a hairdresser, but they were fully booked, and then another, also booked. I stopped in the shade to gather myself.
That’s when I saw a barber shop.
Inside, big metal-and-leather chairs and mirrors were stretching across the wall. An old man, sitting in a corner, looked me up and down as I walked in. I could tell he was questioning my presence: barber shops are not meant for women.
The barber was busy cutting a kid’s hair. When he noticed me, I asked if he could shave the nape of my neck, and he didn’t even blink. He said it would take about half an hour. I sat by the old man and waited.
When he was done with the kid, the barber called the old man. He looked at me and said, “Go ahead, I’m not in a hurry.” I thanked him and sat on the big chair with my hair up.
The barber fastened a cape around my neck and started to cut with the clippers, gently, taking his time, and then he finished it off with a razor, tracing the cool metal across my skin. The blanket piled on the floor around us.
I walked back to the café, feeling refreshed. I couldn’t stop brushing my fingers on my shaved neck. I told my boyfriend that my energy had upped a level, and we gathered our things and took off to the campsite.
After setting up the tent, we went to the terrace to have a drink and wait for our friends. My hair was a mess, so I let it down to redo my bun, but when I ran my hands through it, a big lock of hair came out. I froze and looked at my boyfriend, who was looking back at me.
Was this it? Was this the movie scene where the woman with cancer is in the shower, and her hair starts falling out?
Mild hair loss was a possible, yet rare, side effect of the medication I was on. This was not mild; this was a big chunk of my hair. I remembered all those times I complained about having too much hair, of it being too hot and too hard to style.
My boyfriend courageously kept eye contact. In his eyes, I imagined a flash of the future we had both been quietly dreading. He didn’t look away. It was as if we had inhaled a massive breath together and could not let go. We froze for what seemed a long time, the lock of hair in my hand, until it hit me.
“It was the barber!” I said, relieved. “He probably cut my hair above the shaved hairline and got part of the long hair.” I checked the rest of my hair; nothing was falling out. We breathed again. I was smiling, but my boyfriend was not. He looked at me and, with a serious face, said, “You’d think you actually have cancer.”
I frowned, confused, for a nanosecond, until noticing he was holding back a smile, and we both burst out laughing, the tears running down my face. We couldn’t stop.
We were not just laughing at a corny dad joke; we were breaking free from all the serious, somber faces of the last three months.
I often think back to that moment, at the way every time we looked up and our eyes met, it would start all over again, the two of us, laughing together at this shitty disease. And through the laughter, the door opened, just a crack, just enough for the little girl to know she can always whisper “I’m afraid of the dark.” 🌿
Sara Vieira
Writer, trainer. Diagnosed in 2016 at 38. Stage 1, ER+, PR+. Diagnosed in 2023 at 45. Stage IV.
Sara is living her second life. For 15 years, she worked in environmental policy before deciding to follow a different passion: writing. She publishes essays in Expiration Date, a bilingual publication that explores human nature, death, beauty, and the art of paying attention to life while riding metastatic breast cancer.
“Laughing Together” is published in Wildfire Journal’s 2026 “MBC - Love & Intimacy” issue. Order the full issue in our shop. Available as a digital download and in the subscribers’ library as well.