Not my shade.

Cancer changes you.

I wish it didn’t, but it’s not something you can hide from.

It changes your perspectives, your relationships, your future – everything.

But that’s not always a bad thing. I am who I am because of my cancer. I’ve learned more about myself and what I’m capable of. I’ve discovered a world I never fully understood before – one I’m now proud to advocate for, championing change for future patients and their families.

And while my last few stories have been steered by sadness, pain, and fear, this one is proof that even in the darkest times, there are moments of light.

Moments born from something awful that somehow turn into something good.

And one of the toughest moments for me was losing my hair.

At first, I swore I’d never get a wig. I’m still not entirely sure why – maybe it was the fear that it would be one more reminder of how real this all was. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe I just didn’t want cancer to take another choice away from me.

Whatever the reason, I was adamant. Scarves and cotton hats only. A bold stand, I told myself.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t that simple.

I was angry. With cancer. With the world. With the unfairness of it all.

By refusing a wig, I convinced myself I was in control – but the truth was, I’d made myself a walking target. I looked every bit the “cancer patient,” and I hated it.

Still, the rage was louder than the discomfort.

So on the good days, the ones when I was allowed off the ward, I’d wander the nearby shopping centre, hiding between clothing rails as strangers’ sympathetic eyes followed me.

And how did I respond? By glaring straight back with defiance.

Of course, I understood why they were looking – truthfully, I probably would have done the same in their shoes – but I wanted them to feel uncomfortable and guilty for staring. My ginger hair might be gone, but the stubbornness and fiery temper were still very much intact.

But despite myself, I eventually gave in. Maybe a wig could make this whole ordeal feel just a little less… cruel.

So, my mum and I went wig shopping. Not exactly how I’d pictured spending my early twenties, but cancer rarely respects timelines.

I'd braced myself for the worst – a dull room with beige carpets and dusty wigs that hadn’t been touched in years. Instead, we walked into a boutique hidden down a quiet side street, full of light, colour, and unexpected life.

It was then that it hit me: wigs weren’t just for old, ageing women trying to cover up bald patches for their sanity. They were for people like me, fighting to reclaim a piece of themselves. They were for artists, creatives, and performers who turned hair into costume and art. They were about confidence. Identity. Power.

I sat in front of a mirror while the stylist pulled wig after wig from the shelves, and in minutes, I had endless possibilities at my fingertips.

As a teenager, I’d never dyed my hair – I’d been warned (threatened, really) never to change my natural colour. But here I was, finally given permission to try anything.

It quickly became clear that blondes left me looking ghostly, but too dark, and I was channelling full gothic villain vibes.

Eventually, after trying on what felt like half the shop, two made the shortlist: a chic, daring silvery-grey option, and a warm brunette that lifted me just enough in that moment, without taking away who I was.

That day, I walked into the boutique bald and bitter; an hour later, I walked out with a smile.

For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt like myself again. Like I’d just had a trip to the salon – except this time, “getting my hair done” meant actually getting hair.

But this was only the start of my wig journey.

Later, I was referred to a service offering real-hair wigs free for cancer patients.

But – brace yourself – despite Scotland being the ginger capital of the world, there wasn’t a single real ginger wig in stock. Not one!

I’m still recovering from the heartbreak.

So I tried something different. A dirty blonde: dark enough to make me look alive, light enough to feel fresh. And just like that, my hair loss shifted from being a wound to being a canvas.

Not one I would have chosen, but one I could still make my own.

And who knows – maybe one day I’ll be marching under a banner that reads ‘Gingers Deserve Better.’

And when you see it, you’ll know this was the spark.