Amy Dowden reveals how going bald on Strictly impacted her wellbeing

Everything changes when you get a cancer diagnosis. It pulls the floor from right under you and affects your whole outlook on life. Before I was told I had breast cancer in the spring of 2023, I was fulfilling every single one of the dreams I’d had as a little girl who loved to dance.

My diary was crammed with filming for Strictly Come Dancing, where I was the only British female professional dancer, as well as with lessons at the dance academy my husband Ben and I founded in 2016 in the West Midlands.

All of it came to a grinding halt. First I had a lumpectomy, followed by a single mastectomy, radiotherapy and tamoxifen. And then, when the tissue analysis revealed there were two kinds of cancer in the same breast, a course of chemotherapy, which frankly terrified me.

The truth was, I really dreaded losing my hair. Your hair is your femininity, your identity – and I wanted to stay looking like Amy even if everything else about me felt different.

Growing up in Caerphilly, Wales, I was a super-girly girl who loved glitter and pink feather boas. It was the diamante, the make-up and glitz of ballroom dancing that first drew me to it. To lose my hair would be to lose a vital element of the glamour I still loved so much.

For a while I tried to use the cold cap during chemo treatments, which theoretically limits hair loss by restricting blood flow to the head, but – to put it bluntly – it didn’t work for me.

The morning after my very first session I woke up and found hair on my pillow. Please, no, I thought.

I walked into my en suite and left a trail of hair behind me. Soon there was hair on the bathroom floor and all around the sink.

My wonderful hairdresser friend Karla suggested cutting my hair gradually so that, if it came to it, there wouldn’t be a drastic change from long hair to nothing. She knew what my hair meant to me. She’d styled it for magazine shoots, dance competitions and shows, and we both cried our eyes out the first time she took a bit off.

Every part of that journey, as she cut my hair shorter and shorter in stages, was upsetting.

My twin sister Rebecca felt it keenly, too, of course. I began to understand just how much after she got upset when she came with me for a wig fitting.

Mostly, it was fun trying on all the different wigs in the shop together, especially the really ridiculous ones. We laughed so much.

But then, just before we left, Rebecca burst into tears. I think trying the wigs on made her think about what it would be like to be in my position, so I tried to keep up a brave face in front of her after that.

Meanwhile I was missing every aspect of dancing. Rebecca and I went down to Strictly to watch the filming of the show’s opening sequence, when all the couples do a piece for the titles, but it only succeeded in making me feel sad. I wanted to be caught up in the excitement of Strictly, doing what they were doing, but I had my chemo port in my arm and there was no way I could dance.

The emotion welled up inside me and I couldn’t stop the tears from coming – again. My hair was thinning, I couldn’t do what I loved the most: I didn’t feel like myself and I was overwhelmed by feelings of loss. It was my lowest point.

For weeks, I found it impossible to reconcile myself to this new hairless Amy. It felt too exposing to let anybody see me in real life without a hat on, a headscarf or a wig. If the postman knocked on the door, or the builders came round, I’d straight away put a scarf on.

And then came a moment that made me look at myself in a wholly new way.

I’d been invited to the Pride of Britain awards, a celebration of extraordinary people who go above and beyond to help others.

It’s an inspirational event and I was among a group of Strictly dancers presenting an award to a remarkable man who had raised a huge amount of money for the Macmillan Cancer Support charity. Rebecca, Dianne [Buswell] and I were going, together with some of the other pros.

When the stylist who was helping us source our dresses asked me what I wanted to wear, I said, ‘It’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month, so I’d like something pink to represent that. And if it has a bow on, amazing.’ The stylist sent across some photo suggestions and I chose a pink satin dress with a massive bow. Perfect!

Dianne and I did our dress fittings in a hotel room with the stylist and my sister Rebecca. I loved the look of my dress on the hanger – it said it all – but when I tried it on it didn’t look right, even though it was a snug fit. It was something to do with my big wig and the big bow – it was too much, a clash.

I had a hot flush while I was pondering what to do. I’d just been put into menopause by the chemo drugs I was taking, and these waves of heat kept sweeping through me and turning me into a ball of sweat.

I took my wig off to cool down and Dianne, the stylist and my sister turned to look at me. ‘Oh my God!’ they all said at once. ‘The dress–’

Looking in the mirror, I could see the dress looked way better now. When I’d picked it out, I’d seen it on a model who had her hair slicked back into a bun, which is why it had looked so good. But I couldn’t slick back my wig, because it would ruin it. You’ve got to be so careful with wigs because they’re unbelievably expensive.

It was the first time Dianne had seen me face to face without my hair. ‘Amy, you look amazing! You need to do this without a wig on,’ she urged.

I looked at Rebecca to see what she thought. ‘I hate to say this, but she’s right,’ my sister said.

Then the stylist chipped in. ‘I didn’t want to say anything, but you totally rock this and if you can’t go without a wig, I don’t know if this dress is right for you.’

Dianne and Rebecca kept on and on about it, but I wasn’t sure.

Towards the end of that week, before the awards, I went down to Strictly again to film a surprise appearance on the show, my first since the cancer diagnosis, reading out the voting terms and conditions (the T&Cs).

When I went into hair and make-up to have my wig fitted, the hair people said, ‘We need to curl it, so don’t wear the wig for the dress run. Keep the scarf on.’

Just then, I had another hot flush and took my headscarf off for a second. Dianne’s eyes lit up again.

‘I just love this bald look,’ she said. ‘Just go out there and do the dress run without your headscarf on.’

I was so hot that I did exactly that. I could see the production team up in the gallery were surprised. ‘She’s gone out there bald!’

After the dress run, I went into hair and make-up. ‘You need to do the T&Cs without a wig!’ everybody was saying.

‘Imagine what it would do for everyone else going through this. You’ve got the platform – use it!’

‘I’m hiding your wig,’ one of the girls joked.

I already felt a little bit exhilarated and proud of myself. Two days earlier, I’d been worried about the builder seeing me without my scarf, now I was thinking about revealing my bald head to an audience of millions. Could I really do it? I went and spoke to the production team. ‘It’s entirely up to you,’ they said. ‘We’d love you to do it without, but it’s your first appearance on Strictly this season, so you must do what you feel happiest with.’

I felt hesitant right up until the last minute. For once, I didn’t discuss it with my husband Ben or my parents.

Then something inside me said: ‘Yeah, let’s do this for everybody else on this journey.’

And I went ahead and filmed the T&Cs while exposing my bald head to the world.

The moment it went out, my phone started buzzing. The response online and on social media was unbelievable, and the comments were filled with love. Now I wasn’t worried about going to the Pride of Britain ceremony without my wig. 

In fact, I went to the awards positively showing off my bald head, hoping it would give courage to people of all ages, but especially to teenage girls who have lost their hair because of alopecia or leukaemia or another cancer.

I was seeing a lot of teenage girls going into the unit when I was in having treatment, and my heart went out to every one of them. Knowing how hard I was finding it, I couldn’t imagine how awful it must be for them, so I was hoping that if their mates saw me on the TV with a bald head, they’d think: ‘Oh, that’s like my friend at school!’ It’s normal. It’s fine. Nothing for them to be embarrassed or ashamed about.

My final round of chemo couldn’t have come soon enough – my mind was always fixed on that goal. When the day finally came in November last year, I cried all morning.

My family and friends turned up to surprise me with cake, balloons and flowers, wearing bright pink T-shirts; we had a group hug and, as they wrapped me up in their love, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief that I’d finally made it to the end of my treatment.

Nine months later, I’ve got no evidence of disease, which is amazing. I won’t get an all-clear for five years, because of the type of cancer I’ve had – a hormone-fed cancer – and I’ll need an injection once a month and regular check-ups. But it’s the best outcome I could have hoped for.

Had doctors found more cancer or said I needed more chemo, or more surgery, then I might not have been able to do Strictly this year. And if I’d needed to have my other breast off, it would have taken away the chance of ever being able to breastfeed a baby. So it really is the best news.

I still miss my hair. Although my chemo treatment is over, I can’t help feeling that I’m still being punished as I wait for my hair to grow, knowing it will take years to get it back to how it was.

Even now, if I’m being very honest, I look at people with lovely long hair and I envy them.

And yet I’ve realised something very important on this journey, too. That beauty comes from within, not from the exterior. I had everything stripped away from me: my hair, my eyelashes and eyebrows; I gained two stone in weight from taking steroids.

And in time, I learned to think: ‘You know what? This is what my body needs to go through to survive. I’m going to get through the bad times so that I can get back to doing what I love most.’

Today, I’m like a different person. I can’t stop smiling, laughing and giggling. I can sleep at night without my mind racing. I feel like I can plan, and look ahead. I’ve got my motivation back.

And I just want to get back on that dance floor. I’ve missed it so much. I’ve been able to do a bit of teaching. I’ve been watching competitions. I’ve been planning and choreographing ideas in my head, but I haven’t been able to do any performing – and I can’t wait to be able to dance for an audience again.

That’s when I’m going to feel like I’m really me again: not Amy the cancer survivor with a bald head, no matter how important that was – but Amy the dancer.

• Adapted from Dancing In The Rain by Amy Dowden (£22, Piatkus) out September 5. ©Amy Dowden 2024. To order a copy for £19.80 (Offer valid to 01/09/24; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.