After my first treatment, the six of us, excluding my mom headed over to another friend’s apartment for the party where we met eight other friends. I knew my hair would fall out soon. I also knew that losing my hair in clumps would be traumatizing, especially if it was still long. How would my friends react to this? I had had almost a month to accept the fact that I wouldn’t have hair and I could now laugh about it. My friends still didn’t see the humor in it.   

To make it a less traumatic and taboo subject, I had decided to throw a hair-cutting party to involve my friends in the process.  I didn't want them to feel uncomfortable seeing me without hair and I certainly didn’t want them to feel bad for me. The party would be beneficial in other ways as well. It would allow me to feel like I was in control of the situation, instead of at the mercy of chemo's side effects.

Once at my friend’s apartment, we popped open a bottle of champagne, (though I stuck to water), put on some music and danced around, laughing. My friend, Josie, who was at Columbia Journalism School at the time, decided to document this experience which we could eventually take to high schools and colleges to educate other young women about breast cancer. The hair-cutting party would begin the documentary.

It was getting late and I kept delaying chopping my hair, but it was getting late and I couldn’t stall anymore. Some of my friends who didn’t want to watch went downstairs so they didn’t cry in front of me. I understood. Ben wanted to watch, but I made him join some of the other girls downstairs, not wanting him to see me until I was done. What if he didn’t think I was attractive after my hair was gone? Would I still be sexy to him? Of everyone, I was most concerned what he would think. After all, he was a guy.

I faced the wall so I couldn’t see myself until I was done. Molly was brave enough to go first. Her mom had gone through chemotherapy for breast cancer the year before so she felt the most comfortable. She took a chunk of my hair, careful to leave enough for the others. I held my breath as I heard the sound of cutting. The first cut had been made and some clapped. Reaching up to feel where the hair had once been I began laughing and crying at the same time. There was an inch of hair left and there was no turning back. “Are you sure you didn’t cut too much off?” I asked, concerned. “No, it’s going to look great,” she said hopefully.

Christina went next. She looked nervous and took a very small piece of hair in her palm. Hesitatingly she cut and quickly gave the strands of hair to Aysha whose job it was to tie the chunks in pink ribbons for “party favors.” Christina disappeared into the other room. I saw her out of the corner of my eye. Her face was red as tears streamed down her face.    One by one, the rest of them took turns cutting handfuls of hair. It was a bizarre situation but by the end everyone had relaxed and now felt at ease talking openly to me about the cancer.

When they finished, Michele took the scissors and tried to style what was left of my hair. I had no idea what it looked like. All I could do was feel what was left of my long black hair. Anxiously I waited to see what I would look like with short hair.  “It looks great,” they said, complimenting me. I didn’t believe them. It took over twenty minutes to build the courage to look at myself in the mirror. Finally, I peered at my reflection from the side of the mirror, only seeing half my head. Somehow I thought if I didn’t see my whole head at once, it wouldn’t be as bad. Eventually, I looked at myself head on, and didn’t mind the inch long spiky boys cut.

It was time to show Ben. I self-consciously walked downstairs with a towel over my head. “Let’s see what it looks like,” Ben said, smiling. “I look like a boy!” I said, scared to show him. “Come on. I’m sure it looks good.” He gently took the towel from my head. I watched his face carefully, waiting for his reaction. “It looks really cute,” he said. “Are you just saying that?” “No. I’m actually surprised. It’s kind of sexy,” he said running his hands through it. “Really?” I asked, fishing for compliments. “Yes. I told you you’d look good with no hair. You have a gorgeous face and it doesn’t matter if you have hair or not.” He always knew how to make me feel attractive.

I couldn’t have asked for a better response. I felt relieved. All of sudden, feeling sick to my stomach, I ran to the bathroom. My friends thought I hated the cut, but actually the nausea medicine was wearing off. I went into the bathroom and threw up for the next five minutes. In the bathroom I gave myself a pep talk as I puked. “Mohammed Ali once said, “I hated every minute of training, but suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.’” I kept repeating a similar quote to myself until I finished throwing up. “I hated every minute of chemo, but suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.”

I continued to throw up and Ben knocked at the door before letting himself in and he knelt beside me. I hated the thought of him seeing me like this so I told him to leave. “I’m not leaving you like this,” he said as he held my forehead over the toilet and rubbed my back. He stayed with me for the next hour. Between throwing up, I curled up on the cold floor and he quickly moved my head into his lap. When I was done for the time being, he lifted me gently off the floor and helped me wash my face. “I’m going to take you home so you can get some rest.”

I wondered if I would have been so good to him if he were going through this. It was a Thursday night. I had planned on taking the day off from work on Friday and then using the weekend to recover. I didn’t sleep and became very good friends with the toilet that night, running to the bathroom every couple hours.In the morning, I called my violin teacher, Janice, to tell her I would not be able to make it to my lesson that day. “Asha, you have already paid for your lessons, I will not refund them and I expect to see you here this afternoon,” she said firmly. I was so angry with her, but I was used to her strictness. Besides not feeling well, I hadn’t been able to practice my violin and viola since my lumpectomy because I couldn’t lift my left arm. I didn’t realize that it would take more than two years before I had full range of motion again and gain sensation back.