Wigs, Imposter Syndrome and What It Means to Be 'Natural'

When I found out I’d be losing my hair due to chemo, people said, “Just get a wig.” And at my next medical appointment, I stopped at the wig store in the hospital to browse.

Me in my wig with one of the hats I crocheted, summer 2023

There were rows and rows of faceless forms with long, short, curly and straight wigs, but I didn’t like any of them. I felt sick to my stomach, and was still in denial that I had cancer again, and that this time I would lose my hair. Before the shop assistant could ask me if I needed help, I scurried out of the shop with my eyes downcast to hide the tears, and headed for my bicycle and home.

Soon after, my friend Maggie drove me to see a woman who made wigs for theatre, TV and films, and who also helped people with hair loss. She sourced good-quality (albeit more expensive) wigs than the hospital shop. The best were made from real hair and cost thousands of dollars, but the wig lady said those were best for people who needed a wig long term, such as women with alopecia. Instead, Maggie and I looked through catalogs of wigs made with artificial hair, most costing in the hundreds. I picked out an attractive artificial wig that was a similar color to my own hair, but longer and thicker. The wig lady trimmed it and thinned it at the crown so it looked as natural as possible.

Who Did I Think I Was?

It was fabulous hair – far better than my own – and I felt lucky that I could afford it. I put it on at home, adjusting it in the mirror. I tried it with and without earrings, with and without hats and headbands, up in a clip and down in a ponytail.

But no matter what I did, I couldn’t go out in public wearing it.

I felt like an imposter, pretending to be an attractive woman with great hair. I couldn’t own this new look. It felt especially deceptive to look good on the outside while I felt increasingly wretched and damaged inside due to the chemotherapy.

Throughout my life, I haven’t worn a lot of make-up or spent a lot of time on my hair or clothes, so having such fabulous hair on my head seemed completely out of character. I kept thinking other people would notice and think, “Who does she think she is?”

Embracing Embellishment

A few years before, I’d reconnected with a high school friend. She was and is beautiful, with thick black hair that falls to her waist. When we went out one evening I was shocked to discover that she was wearing a fake ponytail and fake eyelashes. I couldn’t work out why she bothered with artificial embellishments when she was endowed with such natural beauty. But she lived in California, she said, and occasionally went to LA, where everyone had had work done. Her accoutrements were nothing, she assured me.

I felt like the bumpkin I clearly am. Plenty of people embellish, fake it, play dress up, use fashion and accessories of all kinds to express themselves. But still, I couldn’t release my attachment to my notion of ‘natural’, which to me meant free and unfettered, with only the bits I was born with.

Now that I’d lost my hair, I had to embrace embellishment or buck up the confidence to go out with my bald head on display. I definitely didn’t have the confidence to do that.

In truth, I was being propped up by a dozen drugs and the medical establishment itself, not to mention wig makers and make-up companies that helped me cover up my sallow skin and dark circles. What was ‘natural’ about that?

My Naturalistic Fallacy

I realized that my notions of feminine beauty had collided with those of ‘natural’ health, which I’d been reading about and following since I was 18 years old, long before these ideas were supercharged by social media. I’d fallen hard for the naturalistic fallacy: that ‘natural’ is good and ‘unnatural’ is bad, and that these things can be clearly delineated.

My trusty wildflower guide showing the periwinkle plant -- source of the chemo drug that causes hair loss.

With an aggressive cancer, I didn’t have a lot of time to jettison these narrow notions of what is ‘natural’ and embrace the conventional medicine that would save my life.

I did, however, make a surprising discovery while walking in the woods one day, which shook up my idea about the definition of natural.

Healing in the Hedgerow

I was identifying wildflowers and came across a member of the Dogbane family -- Greater Periwinkle (vinca major). It's a common garden plant that often escapes into the wild. It has medicinal qualities, and is the source of an alkaloid called vincristine. I recognized that name -- it was one of the three chemo drugs I'd received, and the one most likely to cause hair loss.

This felt like a magical moment, when Nature herself was letting me know that healing and beauty come in all kinds of disguises.