Fighting cancer had stripped me of more than just my hair—it felt like I’d lost my identity. After months of grueling chemo, I decided to shave the remaining strands, hoping to regain a sense of control. At the salon, Tony, my kind hairdresser, began the process, offering comforting words that made me feel empowered.

Just as I was starting to feel better, a rude man stormed in, demanding my seat. His cruel comments about my baldness cut deep. I fled to the bathroom in tears, wondering how people could be so heartless. When I returned, I was shocked to see Tony had taken revenge on my behalf.

The man sat, oblivious, as Tony transformed his hair into a disastrous neon-pink mess. The man erupted in fury when he saw himself, but the salon owner supported Tony, offering the man a free head shave. Defeated, he left, bald and humiliated.

As I walked out of the salon, I felt lighter. Cancer had taken my hair, but it hadn’t taken my spirit. With Tony’s support, I reclaimed my dignity and realized my strength wasn’t in my appearance, but in my resilience.

“Polly’s back,” I whispered, “and stronger than ever.”