When I was diagnosed with breast cancer and learned that I would need to undergo chemotherapy and radiation after my mastectomy, there was a moment when I realized I would eventually be bald. At that point in my life, my hair wasn’t in particularly great shape. I had stopped coloring it, and wasn’t getting regular haircuts, partly because I couldn’t afford them.
This essay was originally published on March 10, 2015.
It is pertinent to the subject of today’s blog to say that I grew up with a mother who was constantly worried about what other people thought. Moreover, she passed that charming trait down to my older brother, who, at 61, still lives his life without the ability to say, “I don’t give a fuck” about what others think of him. Now I can get on with the matter at hand.