In case my mom hasn't already told you (she gets to everyone before I do), you should know that I shaved my head. (They don't actually shave anyone's hair due to legal reasons, but it was buzzed pretty short.) I do have to tell you why I did it, and I'll start it off by saying that it was terrifying... When I saw the first poster advertising the event, I thought to myself, "That's a cool idea, I wish I could do that." Wish being the operative word. I thought about it for about a week, mentioning the idea to only a select few. They all gave me effectively the same response: "Wow, that would be really great, but make sure you think about it." Supportive but cautious. Trying to think about it concretely - the potential of someone chopping off all of MY hair - I attempted to see what I would look like by hiding my hair under a wrap or scarf or pulling most of my hair out of view in the mirror. Immediately, I started to change my mind. "It's too much. Too drastic. It'll take months (or years!) to grow out. I've never had hair remotely that short. I won't look good. I'll just donate." The excuses went on and on. But at the same time, I couldn't seem to fall asleep at night. The idea kept rolling around and around in my head and it wouldn't let go. To be honest, those excuses and my hesitance had made me ashamed; I could not chose this for myself (it being too hard, and all) but as a physician I might one day have to subject a patient to this same ordeal. The problem is, for her it would occur at one of the most vulnerable and frightening times of her life. So I tentatively told myself I would keep the option open, but I still couldn't commit to it. If I signed up as a shavee... If I told everyone my intentions... then I would have to. The idea terrified me. Yet, I think that's what really clinched it for me. (The fact that it was so scary.) I realized that if it's this hard for me, how much harder must it be for women who have no choice in the matter? It's the kick while you're down. "You have cancer. We'll do everything we can for you. You can start chemo immediately, which has some side effects..." Like an after thought: losing your hair. Really. What's the big deal? It's a "side effect." Or better yet, when people say: "It's only hair. It'll grow back. Seriously. This is the least of your worries." This is, of course, said with the best of intentions and in many ways true. Fighting the cells rampaging through your body is a much more pressing concern. But when that "side effect" translates into pulling handfuls out of your brush or watching rivers of hair run down your body into the drain... "It'll grow back" doesn't make your hands less full or cheeks less wet. So Wednesday afternoon I knew what I was going to do, but it remained something I could not share aloud. I arrived at the event an hour and a half early (I was scheduled for 3:00) because I knew I wasn't going to be able to use that time to study. After finishing my exam this morning, I went home to wash and dry my hair for the last time. I can't think of many times I was so meticulous. The last couple days my hair has been a particularly pressing issue; how the last few days of summer seem so much more precious and vibrant than the rest. I couldn't sit home counting the seconds so I went back to school to wait. To mull around with the other people who were slowly filtering in. Watching the first few shavees, I had to walk to the back of the crowd for a few breaths. My heart was pounding and my palms were sweaty. I kept telling myself, "This is so ridiculous." I don't even like having to style my hair. I hate how long it takes to wash and dry. And, again, I would remember that some women love all of those things but they don't have the choice. They have to wear their suffering visibly, proclaiming "I have cancer," even on the days when that mere thought is too much to bear. When it was time for the "Locks of Love" girls at 3:00 - those who were donating their hair - I rushed up to the front before I could change my mind. The stylist was great and talked to me at the beginning. (I told her I was nervous.) If you've seen my pictures you can tell I was grinning like a fool, not sure what else to do in front of the huge crowd with countless cameras directed specifically at me. (A woman losing her hair is not as casual as for a man.) When all was said and done, I slowly walked through the crowd. I wanted any of the patients who were still there to get a good look. At that point, I was only the 2nd woman with her hair gone and there would be only a couple more. Politely, I made my exit and walked back to my car. I blasted my music on the way home, playing only the songs to which I could sing all the words. When I got home I washed the tiny pieces of hair from my neck and shoulders, and wept for the hair that I lost. I don't regret my decision. I am every bit the woman that I was with "long, flowing hair" and I look forward to, one day, having long hair again. (I guess my Dad will have to settle for the "daughter he's always wanted," rather than the son.) But this I can say: I now have the courage to make a promise. If any of you, God forbid, are ever faced with the prospect of losing your hair slowly or choosing to shave it - "tearing off the band-aid" so to speak - I will do it again with you. (No offense, guys, but this statement does not apply to male pattern baldness. Somehow I think you'll find someone to share your pain.) Just think of all the money we could raise when I have friends who are actually doctors! This is going to take forever to grow out, but I'll survive. In the meantime I'll dig out the earrings I haven't worn in years. I cannot express my gratitude for the immense support and solidarity you have shown in helping me to raise more than I thought was possible. Our event raised over 63,000 and, with your help, I was able to raise more than 2,500 - all of which goes toward fighting childhood cancer.