Whether it is nobler to allow your hair to fall out on its own or just let your husband take the clippers to it and stop postponing the inevitable.

It’s possible that I am  more upset about the prospect of losing my hair than I was about losing my breast. On a daily basis, I never did much more with my breast than stuff it in a bra (marital privilege prohibits me from disseminating any other activities). But my hair? Every day, multiple times a day, I do something with my hair.

It has been permed, straightened, short, long, light brown, dark brown, red, blonde and a very strange orange color that occurred when the not-terribly-experienced stylist tried to turn the red hair blonde with a single process dye. That was a fun few weeks during which I considered legally changing my name to Bozo.

I have spent thousands upon  thousands of dollars fighting frizz, coaxing curls and chasing whatever the latest hair care fad is – Morocco owes me a big “thanks a lot!” for the influx of Moroccon-argan oil related cash.

And as of next week, I won’t have to shampoo, condition, highlight, cut, curl, trim, straighten, clip, defrizz, bitch or moan about my hair. For months.

I’m a hair twirler. I love the feel of my hair. It is thick; I’ve never had a hair stylist not comment on how much hair I have. There is no better hair-related feeling, in my mind, than running my hand through a fresh blowout. Now, I’ll be running my hand over my bald skull. I’m going to need to find a new nervous habit. Nail biting is out since I’ll probably lose them as well as my hair. Perhaps pencil gnawing or cracking my knuckles? Suggestions are welcome.

It is interesting to wonder about how I would look bald. I wonder if I have any heretofore unknown moles or beauty marks hidden underneath all this hair. I suspect it’s freckled. I can only hope there’s no Gorbachev-shaped birthmark lurking just below the surface.

I’ve purchased my first headscarf. It’s a lovely ecru color with lace and some sequins. The mannequin in the ad looked stunning. Of course, the mannequin in the ad had high sharp cheekbones and a perfect smokey eye and was, in fact, a mannequin. No way I can compete with that.

I’m trying to figure out where to buy a wig. Insurance will cover what they call a “hair prosthesis.” Rather than one mimicking my own current hairstyle (suburban Mom long layers with highlights), I think I’ll try to mix it up a bit. I’ll go back to being a redhead (maybe people will stop asking me where my kids got their red hair), perhaps try a very dark brown, and, of course, a pink wig which will make my daughter happy.

There are bright spots, of course. I can’t adequately express how over-the-moon thrilled I am that I won’t have to shave or wax for months. An entire summer without my Venus razor and Skintimate shave gel – bliss! Losing my eyebrows will suck, but not having to deal with nicks and cuts? That’s probably a pretty good trade off.

So, to get back to my original question: to shave or not to shave? I’m a bit of a control freak, I admit, and I do like the idea of doing things rather than having things done to me (see marital privilege above). I think that I would prefer to shave instead of waiting for hairballs to start trailing me wherever I go. I think shaving my head will be an empowering way to take back control of my life from the cancer.

Of course, that means I actually have to shave my head.

And buy a wig.

And pencil on some eyebrows.

And figure out how to craft a perfect smokey eye. Without eyelashes.

Yep. I’m going to look like Bozo again.