My hair is changing -- again. It started out perfectly straight, blond, and shoulder length. Then it came tumbling out, thanks to the chemotherapy drugs adriamycin and cytoxan. Four months later, it was back -- curly, dark, and way too short for my liking.

Over the past two years, I've grown to enjoy my hair. The longer it gets, the less curl it keeps. I like it this way. The color has grown on me too. When I look back at photos of my lighter locks, I think dark suits me better. Why do I get the feeling, though, that my hair won't be dark for long?

I still think of my hair as dark, I guess because it was once so very blond and it is so very not blond at the moment -- in my opinion anyway.

My hair is not so short, not so dark, not so curly anymore. And the shock of what sprouted from my head following chemotherapy is not so startling anymore. I guess it's a combination of my getting accustomed to my new look and the fact that lately, my hair is a changin' -- once again -- and this has me somewhat numbed to all things hair-raising in my life.

I was born with straight, blond hair. And I wore these locks on my head for 34 years. Until cancer came a knockin', chemotherapy came a drippin', and my hair went a tumblin'. Bald brought quite an adjustment. And so did the stuff that replaced my pre-chemo hair.

For almost two years now, I have been peering in the mirror at short, brown, curly hair. It took some time, but I grew to like my new look. And now, just as I am feeling OK about my changed appearance, my hair is taking another turn.

Naturally, my hair is longer. That's what happens when chemotherapy becomes a thing of the past. So this is not so surprising. But as my hair grows and gets heavier, my curls are transforming into waves. And I wonder if my curls will continue to disappear as my hair continues to grow. Will my hair be straight again one of these days?

With each passing day, my hair also gets lighter as it slowly fades from dark brown to light brown with a tint of red and a hint of blond. Will my hair be blond again one of the days?

Someone once told me that cancer is temporary. Someone else told me this is not true -- there's nothing temporary about the way cancer changes a life forever. I think I agree. Because as I study my hair, I realize that all of its temporary phases are really just a sign of the permanence cancer has left branded on my body and soul.

Today I watched a video of myself. I was interviewing my grandmother about her 83 years worth of memories -- a project my husband and I dreamed up so that my grandma's life story would live on long after her death.

The video was taped in May 2000, three years before my grandma died and four and a half years before I was diagnosed with cancer. My hair was long and blond and straight, like it had been since I was a little girl, and it was twisted and clipped on the top of my head. I instantly longed for this hair -- and for my grandma too -- and just as I was convincing myself that my post-chemotherapy dark, curly hair was merely a new phase of my life -- much like the phase of living without my grandma -- my six-year-old son entered the room, looked at the TV screen and said, "Mommy, I really like your hair like that."

"I do too," I told Joey.

"Can you get it back?" he said.

"No, I can't get it back," I replied, knowing that I would never bleach my hair back to its original natural color and that the forces of nature will forever prevent me from removing the curl that today looked somewhat like what frames a lion's face.

So, no, I can't get my hair back. And I can't get my grandma back. But I am thankful for the video that captures us together, talking and laughing and remembering. And should my own grandchildren ever wish to interview me when I am 83 years old, I will definitely tell them about my sweet and spunky grandma and all of her touching stories. And I will tell them about the great blond hair I had the privilege of wearing for the first 34 years of my life.

I never colored my hair -- until after cancer, when my once-blond hair lost to chemotherapy grew in mousy brown with touches of gray. I thought it needed some spark and dazzle so I doused my head -- and my bathroom counter and walls too -- with hair dye in an effort to brighten up my look. It worked. And I like it. But I don't like what I've now heard about a possible link between hair dye and cancer. And this is what I told a reporter from the New York Times who called me the other day. She had read my post here on the Cancer Blog about this news story -- about hair dye and cancer -- and she wanted to know more about my personal feelings as a cancer survivor and as a person with colored hair.

I told this reporter that it's a bit ironic that in 36 years, I had never applied hair dye to my hair and that only after cancer did I take the plunge -- only to learn that hair dye may be cancer causing. I told her that I wouldn't do it again -- dye my hair -- although I don't think one application of coloring chemicals will really affect me when research indicates a risk only when women use hair dye 12 or more times. But still, I don't choose to take even the smallest of risks when it comes to my health -- which has already been compromised once. I told the reporter that I have not witnessed any widespread panic among the public about this issue. And I think the people I know who color their hair will continue to do so. That's okay with me. Because when it comes down to it, I am responsible for my hair only, my health only, my life only. That's really all I can manage.

And once my colored hair grows out -- the colored hair that was photographed today for the story this reporter is writing -- I'll manage to live on with my mousy brown hair with natural gray highlights. It won't have much spark or dazzle. But it will be safe.

The topic of my hair is often the subject of conversation -- and is a constant reminder that this brown curly hair I have covering my head is nothing like the straight blond hair I was born with, grew up with, was known for. Because my little boys have white blond hair, I am consistently asked by strangers, "Where did your boys get that blond hair?" "From me," is what I want to say because it's the truth -- but that would make no sense to anyone who does not know me, anyone who does not know that my hair -- that once looked much like my boys' hair -- was lost to chemotherapy and returned shockingly different. So sometimes I just chuckle in wonder with these strangers who may not expect an answer anyway. Or I tell them the story -- if they seem to really want in on the details of the mystery. Most people are surprised that my hair grew back like it did. I am not surprised -- I was warned that it might happen -- although it is still a startling discovery each time I look in the mirror, each time I look back at photos, each time I see gray hairs emerging through my dark hair -- gray that only slightly showed up in the midst of my blond locks.

The memory of my blond hair keeps popping up. My husband told me the other day that he had a dream about me -- I was in a restaurant, at a table, by myself. He was walking toward me. And I had blond hair. The rest of the dream is insignificant. The blond hair is significant. And the other day, I pulled my brush out of my purse. It hasn't been used in more than a year -- because I don't brush my curls at all -- and at the base of the brush, wound around the bristles, were long blond strands of hair. My blond hair. My old hair. The same hair I showed my friend who visited from Ohio last week -- the hair that was once on my head, was cut off in preparation of the great fallout, and is now kept in a ziplock bag.

I like my brown hair. I like my curls. But I miss my blond hair. I am sad that I no longer match my children, that I don't look like the bride in my wedding photo, that I will attend my 20-year high school reunion in two years and will wear a photo name tag that looks nothing like me. I like the familiar -- which is why I never wanted to show my bald head, why I covered my head with blond wigs and hats to keep my appearance as close to normal as possible. And then in a strange turn of events, my hair grew back in an unfamiliar fashion -- and somehow the question, "I see where your boys get that blond hair" flip-flopped into "Where did your boys get that blond hair?" It is all still new to me. I know one day it will become familiar and normal and not such a big deal. Some day. I hope.