By Mikaela Perron-Sampson

No one had told me it would happen so fast. I was ready, in the sense that I knew it would come—but it was still such an odd sight: a toddler’s wispy hair falling out, one strand at a time, like a dandelion in a gentle summer breeze.

I’d first noticed it a few days earlier at the hospital. After Olive awoke from a nap, there’d been a swirl of hair left behind on her pillow. Later, when I took a selfie of the two of us lying on our backs—her head resting on my belly—I noticed the slivers of gold left behind on my black shirt. They were right there in the photo, impossible not to notice.

Some people say shorter hair hides the thinning. I figured we might as well give it a shot.

I slipped a pair of kitchen scissors from my back pocket and crept closer to the bed. Olive was curled around a pillow in the center, fast asleep. I sat beside her and gently stroked her silky blond hair. Even with the lightest touch, a few strands came free and floated to the bed.

This was day 16 of her first chemo cycle.

At just 14 months old, Olive had already been changing so much—learning new words,
mastering skills, getting visibly bigger. But this month had brought a different kind of change.

Just weeks earlier, we’d learned she had a rare and aggressive liver cancer. The tumor had
grown large and fast—it was about the size of a cantaloupe by the time we discovered it—
pressing against her stomach, shifting organs to new locations.

We’d gone from “something feels off” to having our own oncologist in a matter of days.

Watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept, I wondered: Would we even
recognize ourselves in a year?

So far, her worst side effects had been exhaustion and loss of appetite. She’d been sleeping on and off all day, her body doing its best to bounce back from the first few infusions.

With my left hand, I lifted the hair on the left side of her head and snipped. Lock after lock fell. Then I climbed over and did the same on the right.

Finally, she stirred, and I leapt off the bed to get her dad.

When we returned together, Olive was seated on the bed, rubbing her eyes.

“What do you think?” I whispered to him.

Nick and I circled the bed to examine my work.

“The sides are still too long,” he whispered, heading to the bathroom.

I sat beside Olive and brushed away the loose pieces. Moments later, Nick returned with the
clippers we’d bought during the COVID lockdown days—back when I gave him haircuts at
home.

He knelt beside us, flipped the switch, and a soft buzzing filled the room. I watched as Nick
tenderly buzzed the sides of our baby girl’s head.

When he was done, we looked at her with sad, proud smiles.

I brushed her mohawk to one side, then the other, and reached for my phone to snap a picture.

We wouldn’t need that photo to remember this moment.

She was in a black tank dress with electric guitars printed all over it. The dark fabric made her pale skin seem to glow. Her delicate features, wide blue eyes, and this new warrior haircut—I couldn’t look away.

No one wants their one-year-old to be a warrior.

A baby’s life should be made of snuggles and giggles, of safe explorations—trying new foods, moving their bodies to music, making their first clumsy scribbles, feeling the thrill of sand between their toes and the cool rush of a wave washing over their feet. Always with safe arms to run back to.

But not our Olive. Her safe world had been turned on its head, and she’d have to fight—whether she wanted to or not.

And now, she looked the part.

Earlier that week, her hair had floated away like dandelion fluff, weightless and uncontrollable.

We were done being blown about like a dandelion’s seeds.

With a few swipes of the clippers, we’d reclaimed this little semblance of control.

Come what may, we would stand up too—bold, unflinching—leading our tiny warrior through the battle ahead.

Mikaela Perron-Sampson is a mother and writer chronicling her family’s journey through childhood cancer. Her memoir-in-progress explores how even the darkest chapters can hold glimmers of hope, like a mohawk haircut that turned fear into fierce love.

Like what you are reading at Motherwell? Please consider supporting us here. 

Keep up with Motherwell on Facebook, Instagram and via our newsletter.