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.

Dealing with cancer in private is hard. Dealing with cancer publicly can be even harder. CEO Donna McAleer -- the founding executive and public face of the large, growing health care company Elant -- knows this firsthand. She just recently went public with her breast cancer diagnosis and prognosis after rumors of her demise started circulating. McAleer set the record straight, announcing that she is doing just fine. While her experience has been frightening, she is surviving well -- and she wants the public to know. She has run Elant for 20 years and wants to dispel any myths about its stability. Apple CEO Steve Jobs faced the same public drama in 2004 after surgery for pancreatic cancer and subsequent drops in Apple stock. Jobs recovered -- and so did the stock -- but the speculation that swirled was powerful and potentially damaging. Just as it was that same year when Kraft Foods was criticized for withholding details of its CEO's hospitalization.

There is some debate in the business world about all of this -- about whether or not executive illnesses should be disclosed. For public companies, one opinion is that there is an obligation to respond quickly to the public. In a private company, it's up to the CEO. McAleer's Elant is not a publicly traded company and there is no worry about stock price -- but her decision to reveal her personal health crisis was the right thing to do, she says. "I have an obligation to share this news in how I progress, in order to educate and make sure people aren't frightened by it," she said in reference to the memo she sent to her 700 employees and community groups too.

I'm open and honest about my own cancer experience because I believe it can help others -- and it helps me to talk about it too. So I'm a fan of a forthcoming approach in the workplace. I appreciate that some fear repercussions that might result from such a disclosure. But honesty may be the best policy -- for prevention of rumors and addressing worry and raising awareness too. McAleer seems to agree as she takes this opportunity to speak up, to encourage women to seek mammograms and to follow up on them.

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.