Today, think about donating your hair. I know the thought of giving up your precious locks is scary, but it can make the difference in someone's life -- particularly if that someone is a cancer patient who had part ways with vanity long ago to save their life. Interested? Check out this post from The Beauty Brains on how and where you can donate your hair.

Here's the catch: Most hair donations need to be between 8 and 10 inches long, and often (but not always,) it need to be virgin hair -- hair that is not coloured or chemically treated. But if you fit the bill, you can make a world of difference.

At the University of Florida, where my husband works, spouses can get campus I.D. cards which allow access to recreational centers, swimming pools, a university lake, and more. A few years ago, I stood in line for my card. It was during my chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer, and I wore a blond wig topped with a ball cap. Once at the front of line, a college student employee told me to remove my hat so my photo could be taken.

I couldn't take my hat off -- it covered a partial wig made for use with hats, and the very top was made of soft cotton and no hair. I didn't want to be photographed wearing my clown-like wig. I didn't want to be photographed bald. I wanted to look as normal as possible during a time when I felt nothing of the sort.

I told the I.D. center staff of my situation and although these young people seemed a bit unsettled by my story, they complied. And I now have an I.D. that pictures me, my blond wig, and my pink hat. It looks nothing like me. My post-chemo hair came in dark and curly.

The seven cancer thoughts I present to you today are purely random. They are not linked by theme or category. There is no rhyme or reason for my choosing them. And they do not belong with one another for any other reason than this: they all come directly from my very own head and are somehow related to the disease that lingers in my thoughts for most minutes of most days. Here they are:

1. Vanity is merely a six-letter word. It's certainly not as important after cancer as it is before. I admit vanity played a role in my life prior to my breast cancer diagnosis and still, it's with me to some degree. But more important than vanity now is waking each morning and realizing I'm alive. I don't want to lose weight to look ultra thin. I choose to reach an ideal weight because I want to be healthy. I don't want a tan. I want skin that is free from damage. My clothes? I want them to fit and feel comfortable. That's it.

2. Normal is a thing of the past. It's funny how I worked so hard to look normal after cancer struck (note: here's vanity rearing its head). Prior to losing my hair to chemotherapy, I worked hard at matching my long, straight, blond hair to a wig that would become my disguise for five months. I found the perfect replica of what would eventually tumble from my scalp, and I wore it proudly. A neighbor who knew I was receiving chemotherapy once told my sister, "That's so great Jacki didn't lose her hair." I looked that much like normal, people didn't know anything had changed. Little did I know change was right around the corner. When my hair grew in, it was dark and curly. Not even close to normal.

I'm sending off my wig to a new friend tomorrow. It's all wrapped and boxed and packaged and ready to travel from Gainesville, Florida to the east coast of the sunshine state where it will land in the hands of a young women newly diagnosed with breast cancer.

This new friend found me here -- on The Cancer Blog -- and we have been corresponding back and forth via e-mail about all sorts of cancer topics -- like surgery and pathology and chemotherapy and most recently, wigs. She asked me just the other day what type of wig I wore after I lost my hair to chemotherapy. I told her I didn't like full wigs, that they felt too unnatural, that I feared my little boys would rip them off my head in the middle of the grocery store. I told her I opted for underhair -- a hairfall of sorts made of plain, white, soft cotton on the top with hair hanging only from the sides and back. It is worn with hats, to cover the cotton part, and it feels quite secure -- although it did sail off my head at the beach one day, compliments of a strong breeze.

I told my new friend that I was completely happy with my choice. I told her the underhair is made of human hair and that customers get to choose the color, texture, length, and size. The wig can be washed, dried, curled, styled, and cut. It looks so real that some people didn't even know chemotherapy took my hair. It was the perfect disguise for me.

I led my new friend in the direction of this wig -- www.hiphat.com -- where she could order her very own handmade underhair. I told her to ask her doctor for a prescription for a cranial prothesis and to see if her insurance company would reimburse her some of the cost of this fairly expensive wig option. And then I realized it would be silly for her to do all this work and spend so much money when my wig is tucked away in my closet, sitting pretty on a nice styrofoam head, doing nothing more than collecting dust.

I don't need my wig anymore. But my new friend does. So tomorrow, it begins traveling her way. And she can keep it for as long as she needs it, for as long as I don't need it. Which I hope is forever.

Sometimes all it takes is a small gesture to warm the heart of a cancer patient. It doesn't take anything huge. It shouldn't cause any stress or discomfort. And it shouldn't require a whole lot of thought. It should be simple. Simply simple.

A whole lot of small gestures spread a whole lot of cheer my way when I was knee-deep in cancer treatment and needed a lift. Cozy socks kept my feet and my spirits toasty. A package of brownies sweetened my sour days. Flowers brightened my dining room and my state of mind. Books left on my doorstep delivered knowledge and wisdom and a bit of humor to my world.

The options for spreading sunshine are endless. The list of possibilities could go on and on. Here is just a start -- a small list of small gestures that can make a dreary day downright delightful.

Give a hug
Send a handwritten letter
Make a homemade card
Write a poem
Give a journal
Deliver a candle
Make a home-cooked meal
Arrange for food delivery
Babysit children
Play with children
Drive to appointments
Go wig or hat shopping
Visit during chemotherapy sessions
Give something comfy -- socks, pajamas, hat
Do grocery shopping
Accompany to lunch, dinner, movie
Take a walk
Attend church
Have a picnic
Go fishing
Make a donation to favorite charity
Walk, run, volunteer, raise funds in honor of your special someone

Be specific in your gesturing. Trade a comment like "let me know if I can do anything" for "I'm going to come over and wash and clean your car on Saturday." Vague offers are rarely successful -- cancer patients are not likely to recall every general offer they receive and then manage them all into a schedule. It's just too much to consider in the midst of turmoil. But an offer that comes to life right before them is easy. It's effortless. It is truly a gift. A simple, priceless gift.

Photographs tell powerful stories. They depict people and objects and landscapes and emotions in deep, meaningful ways. They capture permanent visual representations of moments in life. They paint pictures that even the most well-crafted words could not reproduce.

When Mary Ann Nilan was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2004 at the age of 40, she knew her story must be told -- through pictures. So she asked a photographer to record it all, stating, "I hope the pictures make the road easier for other women." The rest is history.

She calls it a photo essay and titles it The Diary of Healing. For 17 frames -- with photographs dominating each space and text kept to a minimum -- Nilan shares her journey that began with the discovery of breast cancer in both breasts and several lymph nodes, the journey that took her through chemotherapy, a double mastectomy, and reconstruction with implants.

Her photographs document significant stops on her physical and emotional trek. They show her bald head, the wig she wore only once and then let hang on a hook, the scars that crossed her flat chest after surgery, an injection of saline that painfully pierced the skin of her new breasts, her children measuring her hair as it grows in after chemotherapy. The photographs are both hopeful and chilling. They are breast cancer. They are more than words could ever capture.

Celebrities catch our attention. They cause us to pay attention too -- which is likely why the media uses celebrities and prominent people to send messages about all sorts of issues, like breast cancer.

It's not just the real-life survivor celebrity stories -- about Melissa Etheridge and Elizabeth Edwards and Sheryl Crow -- that make headlines and attract ratings. It's also the portrayal of cancer survivors on television that raises awareness about this disease. It's not a new trend -- it started long ago when All in the Family's Edith Bunker (Jean Stapleton) experienced a breast cancer scare, marking one of the first times the issue of breast cancer was discussed openly on TV.

Tough cop Mary Beth Lacey (Tyne Daly) of the TV show Cagney & Lacey traveled a breast cancer journey. Sisters eldest sister Alex (Swoosie Kurtz) was diagnosed with breast cancer and survived chemotherapy with family by her side. Beverly Hills, 90210 character Brenda Walsh (Shannen Doherty) found a lump in her breast and shed light on the fact that young women are not immune to breast cancer. Sex and the City's Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall) developed breast cancer and proudly pulled off her wig on television. The L Word's Dana Fairbanks (Erin Daniels) lost her battle with breast cancer. And on Angela's Eyes, FBI agent Angela Henson recently learned her mother once had breast cancer -- and that it has come back.

There are many others television story lines woven with the thread of breast cancer. They draw viewers and boost ratings. They also raise awareness -- because people pay attention to celebrities.

I've written twice before about a young woman named Diem Brown. I first wrote in August about her appearance as a contestant on MTV's Real World/Road Rules Challenge reality show. I wrote about how despite a recent diagnosis of ovarian cancer, she took herself to Australia to compete in physical and mental challenges with other spunky 20-something competitors. Brown, 25, fought for a cash prize of $250,000 -- while fighting cancer at the same time.

Brown did not win the grand prize, but she did win the admiration and respect of her castmates who on an MTV reunion show applauded her tireless and heroic efforts. In my second post, in September, I wrote about Brown's presence on the reunion show, about her strength, about the great mindset she acquired prior to returning home from Australia for treatment. I wrote about her foundation -- Live for the Challenge -- a wedding-type registry that allows patients to register for prescriptions, wigs, anything that helps them manage their illnesses. I did not write about the wig Brown wore on the show -- but it was apparent she had lost her long, blond hair and was masking the most visible side effect of chemotherapy.

Brown reluctantly yet powerfully unveiled her head on national television just a few nights ago during the beginning of another MTV Real World/Road Rules Challenge. During this installment -- The Duel -- Brown competes again, this time with the shortest of brown hair covering her scalp and with a fierceness that rivals anything she's offered on past shows.

Brown is back. She's in Brazil. And she is beating cancer.

In 1967, when Beverly Hlavka was 12 years old, her mother Naomi Poppe Kopke was diagnosed with breast cancer and given six months to live. She remembers how helpless she felt wanting to help her mother and not knowing what to do.

Earlier this year, Beverly lost a friend, Holly Elizabeth Remmers to breast cancer. Again, she had felt helpless because she did not know what to do for her friend as her friend struggled to survive cancer. This is when Beverly decided to create a way to help others help women facing breast cancer. Based on the Pay it Forward concept, made famous with the book and movie, she has launched Gift it Forward.

"If people have done nice things for you, don't give it back, Gift it Forward. This project is a way for people to give money to a cause, receive a fantastic piece of fabric art in return and help women diagnosed with breast cancer." From the money raised, individual women with breast cancer will receive a new mastectomy bra; visit to a wellness retreat; new wig; facial, massage, manicure or pedicure at a day spa; tank of gas to get to chemotherapy; some pretty jewelry; new outfit or makeup; phone card to call the grandkids or anything that puts a smile on her face.

Beverly's intention in Gift it Forward is to help women with the issues that surround keeping a positive attitude, self-esteem and concentrating on the idea of wellness instead of the disease of cancer. She includes instructions on how to make a fabric postcard and how to start a Gift it Forward project of your own. For more information, visit Gift it Forward.

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.