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.

One of the keys to finding a cure for cancer is to understand how cancer grows and spreads within the body. Angiogenesis is our body's ability to form new blood vessels. This is important and needed for the body to help heal wounds and is also a part of a woman's menstruation each month. Its function in our bodies is a positive thing most of the time.

Angiogenesis also has a role in how cancer cells grow to become tumors. Cancer cells need a blood supply to live and grow. The cancerous tumor actually develops its own blood supply by sending messages to nearby blood vessels. These vessels then have the ability to grow toward the tumor. The tumor then has its own blood vessels to thrive, survive and grow.

This was not taken seriously back in 1961 when Dr. Judith Folkman came up with the theory of angiogenesis. He felt strongly that tumors could not grow bigger than a head of a pin without blood supply. He thought that an entirely new way to treat cancer would be to block this blood vessel growth to the tumor. Decades of work has proven this theory to be correct. What changed a lot of people's minds was an experiment that was done at the end of the 1970's at Dr. Folkman's lab. Tumor cells were put into a rabbit's eye, a place in the eye where there are no blood vessels. Blood vessels did grow toward and into the eye where the cancerous cells lived.