Bald is Beautiful?

It's easy to make a case for "bald is beautiful." Think Yul Brynnar. Telly Savalas. The Deltan aliens from Star Trek. Sinead O'Connor. My dad, who lost his hair shortly after I was born. Just don't think about Britney Spears.

It's tougher to make the case when it's your own head.

After my follow-up visit at City of Hope this morning, I walked over to the Image Center, a combination boutique and clip joint. I was tired of my unmanicured tresses, a hodgepodge of bald patches and thinning locks that looked like a lawn cut by a drunken gardener.

I thought about inviting friends to the "clipping ceremony" and documenting the event with photos, but, ultimately, I decided on a private affair and no cameras. The clip room was surrounded by mirrors, so I asked the "stylist" to spin me around so that I couldn't see my reflection. I closed my eyes as she sheared the remaining strands of hair from my itchy scalp.

When she was finished, I was still afraid to look. I pulled on a cotton night cap without glancing in the mirror.

It's not so much my hairless head that's troubling. It's the transition from cancer in the abstract to cancer in the concrete. Sure, I had the noticeable but nonthreatening-looking tumor that gave me the drooopy eye look. And I saw the evidence of cancer throughout my body on the PT scans. But now I'm sporting the most obvious sign of a cancer patient.

I know it won't take long to adjust to the concept or the aesthetic. I have a basket full of silk scarves that haven't seen the light of day since the late 80's. I have a new wig that's as cute as any cut I've ever had. And I'm on the prowl for non-clinging hats (think soft French beret) that downplay the skull.

But, for now, I'm avoiding looking at my naked head.