Several years ago in a writing class we were given the topic, "Hair," for the next assignment. When later we shared our work, I was struck by the impassioned feelings expressed, especially by the women in the group. The men tended to write about their first barbershop experience or the wonders of their girlfriend's hair. But for us women it was obvious that hair was a subject close to our hearts.

I am now in the second month of chemo treatments for lymphoma and am watching in dismay the slow steady fallout of my hair. Little by little it is thinning and leaving my head. Showing up on my pillow, on the headrest of my chair, on my shoulders, everywhere I go. I feel like the Peanuts character, Pig Pen, who is always depicted surrounded by a cloud of dirt and hair. But the truth is not like a comic strip; it's real, it's scary, it's traumatic. I don't want to lose my hair.

I remember my 6-year-old grandson's remark when I showed him my high school graduation picture with my long, thick, red hair, "That can't be you, Grandma Zola, that's not your hair." I wonder what he will say when he sees me bald in another week or so.

I used to be so proud of my hair. It was thick and dark auburn and so unlike my twin sister's curly brunette hair. I was jealous though as she looked more like Shirley Temple, my movie idol. But as I grew older I learned that being a redhead was distinctive, not too many of us around. It also meant that I had to behave, because it was easy to point the finger of blame at "that redheaded kid" when I was the only one to fit the description. As a teenager I anguished over my straight hair when it was "in" to be curly. I even subjected myself to a permanent in a beauty shop with ill-fated results. I was stuck with a mass of curls so tight I could hardly get a comb through and I looked awful, at least I thought I did.

As the years went by and I got married and raised a family, my hair became less and less important. I'd tie it back in a pony tail and let it go. Eventually it turned gray and then white. Now when I look in the mirror and see these wisps of scraggly white hair surrounding this wrinkled 80-year-old face, I'm overwhelmed with the loss. But I know this time will pass. If it buys me some remission from my disease, some feeling normal time, some life time, it is worth it. And when I think of my twin sister who is suffering the effects of a brain tumor, totally confused about who and where she is, I know the loss of hair is very unimportant.

But I don't want to lose my hair!