My son shaved my head 16 months ago.  My hair was falling out in clumps from chemotherapy, and I thought the trauma of losing my hair all at once would be somehow less painful than watching it fall from my scalp one batch at a time.  It was still traumatic -- and I cried -- but Joey told me, "It's only a haircut, mommy.  You are not going to die."  Joey was four.  I was 34.  And he was right -- I did not die.  And my hair is growing back. 

It's not the same long, blond, straight hair I once had -- it's now short and dark and curly.  But I have hair.  It feels a whole lot better than not having hair.  Losing my hair was hard.  Being bald was hard.  I never found the strength or courage to flaunt my shiny scalp and I searched high and low for the perfect cover-up.  I found it at Hip Hats. 

I chose something called "underhair," a hairfall with a soft cotton top and human hair that hangs on the sides and on the back.  Any hat fits on top of this underhair and I wore mostly baseball caps.  There are many other options -- hair attached to different hats, scarves, and swim caps; hats with ponytails; hats with braids.  There are more than 6,000 combinations and I was able to choose exactly what I wanted -- the color and texture and length -- and then my hair was hand-crafted just for me. 

One of my neighbors commented one day on how lucky I was not to have lost my hair.  I had lost my hair -- she just couldn't tell.  And this one comment restored some of the self-confidence that cancer took from me.  My "hip hair" now sits in the top of my closet on a Styrofoam head -- no longer necessary yet a reminder of what I once lost.  A reminder of the haircut that was nothing more than a temporary set-back.  I did not die.  It was only a haircut.  A haircut that Hip Hats helped me survive.