Bald IS Beautiful

It's an odd occurence when something so heavily impacts on your life in such ways that it's impossible to explain it to anyone effectively and then someone, something comes along, and all of a sudden - you're not alone anymore.


Robin Roberts of ABC News recently got diagnosed with breast cancer and made the decision to keep a video diary of her journey to air each morning on Good Morning America to share with America the devastating impact that having cancer has.


This morning, Robin Roberts aired a video addition to her diary: a video of her losing her hair, and also a video of her making the conscious decision of shaving it off before it all fell out.

http://abcnews.go.com/Video/playerIndex?id=3869407&affil=wmar

"As hard as it was, I knew what I had to do."

I sobbed uncontrollably while watching the video this morning, and cried just now watching it again. So much of my fear of losing my hair and the empowering feeling that I was left with once I took the plunge and made the commitment to shave my head came rushing back while watching Robin sit there in the chair staring into the mirror at her reflection as the hair was slowly removed piece by piece.

"When I finally did it, I took the power back. Because now I was making the decision instead of letting the cancer make the decision."

I cannot imagine how draining cancer and chemotherapy must be, and how much of your energy and will is tested in a time like that. I am so blessed that my emotional journey ended at just hair loss, rather than the immense physical pain that accompanies surviving cancer.

Going along even more with bald being beautiful - there was a segment about alopecia areata on NBC's local newscast at 5 o' clock news earlier tonight in Baltimore. A woman locally is suffering and wanted to raise awareness.

I have decided for sure that next year I want to put together a fund raiser for alopecia areata awareness. I believe that there is enough advance in modern medicine that with effective funding a cure can be found. I'll keep everyone posted as I slowly begin the process of putting together my first ever public fundraiser.

W.W.S.O'.C.W.?

Since my entrance into the world of 15-minute showers and Chia-pet fuzz, life has been fantastic.

Despite my initial disappointment that the shaved head didn't increase my walking speed just by sheer removal of weight, (hey, you know, hair can be heavy. Weight transfer applies to cars - why can't it apply to humans?) I have had this sudden boost of self-confidence, and feel so incredibly lifted and at ease. At this point, I don't think it will make a huge difference with me whether my hair continues to grow or whether the growth stops here. I feel like I've gained my old-self back and it's such a f*cking amazing feeling.

When I look back at just a few months ago, sitting up at T & S's till the early morning, and being so terribly frightened of losing all my hair, and then I look at the me now, it's like a huge transformation. The thing I was scared of the most in the beginning ended up being the one thing that has placed me back on the high self-esteem map!

So I got this new look, and along with it this encouragement to wear make-up every day. (Where before when I left the house and was feeling lazy I would throw my hair into a ponytail and not worry about my face at all. Maybe if you were lucky you'd see me at around noon taking out my eyeliner and smudging a line in my cubicle mirror with an added finish of lip gloss.)

In addition to the added interest in make-up and experimenting with funky colors, I suddenly realized that my old wardrobe of T-shirts and jeans doesn't jive with this haircut at all.

At this revelation, I find myself asking the age old question:

W.hat W.ould S.inead O'. C.onnor W.ear?

This T-shirt and jeans thing just isn't cutting it. Or perhaps I am just coming up with the best damn excuse ever to reward myself with a shopping spree for new clothes for the new 'do.

I feel like my Chia-pet fuzz is whispering fashionista advice in my ear in the morning.

"No, no, don't wear that God awful two-year old blouse from the Gap...who wears that now? I refuse to look good with that shirt. How bout you try that nice brand new Benetton fuschia cashmere sweater you bought last week? You know I look fabulous in cashmere."

Damn, never knew my Chia-pet fuzz was going to have such great taste in fashion.

My Life as G.I. Jane

I shaved my head on Saturday morning/Friday night. It was one of the most exhilarating things I have done thus far in this past year, so exhilarating that even I was surprised at what an impact it has had on me.

I know that if I had waited to cut it any longer that I probably wouldn't have - or at least I would have put up a good fight. But the fact that it was 3:30 AM or so, and J and I had just gotten home from Fur, and the fact that I was feeling particularly "happy", he just caught me like a deer in headlights.

No sooner had I taken off my "club clothes" and hopped into my PJs was J romping into my room and grabbing his duffel bag.

"You want to cut your hair now?" he asked, holding the bag for his razor in one hand and standing there in my doorway, giving me the look that said he was asking, but knowing full well he was going to cut it anyway regardless of my answer.

"Now? Like, right now?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's best anyways. You can take a shower afterwards since you've been out all night, and then it'll be easier to clean up the hair."

An exasperated sigh ensued, "Okay, I guess you're right."

No sooner had I said okay, J was in the bathroom unzipping and making a lot of racket.

By the time I walked into the hallway and towards the bathroom door, he already had his hair trimmer plugged in and ready to go, all set up nice and neat like a mini barber shop.

He opened up the toilet seat and had me hang my head over the bowl, and I stared at the clear toilet water with suspense as I heard the constant buzz of the hair trimmer in his hand once he clicked it on.

And then it was done. I remember standing up and staring into the bathroom mirror, rubbing my hand over the top, and turning my head left and right to admire his handywork.

Since I have been "G.I. Jane-d" it is like a huge weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I have found this sense of freedom that I never thought imaginable. Weird, I know - that it would all come from just shaving a bit of hair off, but truly, honestly, it really has opened up this whole new source of positive energy for me.

I guess I never realized (until I shaved it off) how much the remnants of my "old" hair was really weighing me down. It was forcing me to be critical of myself, and forcing me to be judgmental because every time I looked in the mirror, those pieces were a constant reminder of what I used to have.

Plus, the long hair in those random areas matched with the patches of Chia-pet fuzz (that's what I call the little baby hairs that are slowly growing in my bald spots) everywhere was just daunting to look at.

And what's awesome about this haircut? 15-minute showers. 10 minutes to get dressed. I love it. No fuss with the hair, no curling irons, no blow dryers. Me, my fuzzball of a head and a nice outfit. Boom. Done.

Day One of Wig-Wearing Under My Belt

I had started to write this blog entry last night after my Chem lab, but a kid whom I had met several years ago during my first year at CCBC grabbed me to start talking. Apparently, he never forgot me, even with a wig on my head.

So yesterday was my first day in wig-wearing glory. The night before was when I had purchased it from the wig store on Taylor & Loch Raven (The one that everyone who I had talked to always raved about.) which turned out to be a very less emotional experience the second time around.

Ever since that first time in the wig shop, I had realized that I wasn't fully ready as much as I thought I was. I don't think that I had fully accepted who I was without the wig, even though I truly thought I had moved on from that, until I hung out at my friend Scott's house a couple weeks ago.

Scott is a DJ. Well, he just started and his first "true" gig was at XS the other night. So I tagged along with a group of people to show some support. After the restaurant closed, we decided to head over to Scott's house to have some food and some mojitos.

This was the first time that these guys would see me the closest I have ever been to being bald. And what was even cooler was that previously that night, when Jolee came to pick me up from my house, I just ran down the steps with no hat on, with nothing to answer the door.

I don't know what compelled me to do that, but I was really glad that I had. I think it was just time. That and a high disregard for not having enough time to put a hat on. Irregardless of what the reasons were behind it, if any, I answered that door with my dome completely exposed.

I think half way through my walk up the steps once they started to follow me into the house it hit me that I was bald and I felt my heart skip a beat. But by that time I had already committed myself - so I just went with it.

It felt so incredibly freeing. I mean I have read so many posts from people talking about how they revealed their bald heads to the world - and how it felt so freeing but I never thought I'd ever feel it to the extent that I felt it. It was like freedom had come to fruition.

So it wasn't any surprise that later on, while at Scott's house, I suddenly just lifted the hat off my head - and sat there on the couch, continuing on my conversation with Godfather Sage - with no hesitation whatsoever.

And that was it - that was the point where I knew it was time to get the wig. I know it sounds sort of backwards really, why would I be getting a wig just now as I am becoming completely comfortable with being bald? Why cover up that free feeling?

Well because when I first went to the wig store that's exactly what I was doing. Covering up my embarrassment. My shame, my horror, my fears, and my sadness. That wig was doing everything that I was too scared to do - to just face my fears and the truth of it all and embrace it. That's why it wasn't time. That's why I was so consumed with sadness and emotional turmoil.

But now that I am free. Now that I know I am comfortable with being bald - just walking around my house, going to sleep, taking out the trash, exercising - now that I know that, I can now go to the wig store and buy that wig because I WANT to, not because I feel I NEED to. A wig is not something a person should NEED. It should be something a person should WANT. And that's what I wanted to feel. That's what made it the right time for me. Because I knew at that point, the wig wasn't going to hide anything that I hadn't already come to accept. The wig is my play time, my fun time... it is my ability to express that inner crazy self that leaps out in so many other ways - why can't wig wearing be one of them, too?

Plastic Heads

I went to the wig shop last night for the very first time. My father and I were in the neighborhood of the one that people kept suggesting to me, so I decided to have him drop me off to check it out while he went grocery shopping.


As I walked through the doors, for no reason at all, I choked up. I'm still not quite sure where that came from - I didn't realize how nervous I was subconsciously until I immediately was faced with rows and rows of plastic heads covered with wigs.


It was overwhelming, and almost like walking through a Halloween store for me. None of them looked like me. I kept reminding myself that this wasn't for a costume anymore, this was for the real deal. I suddenly realized that I could easily make a wrong decision and it might end up looking hideous and ridiculously out of place on my head. I also suddenly realized that maybe I wasn't as ready as I thought I was, emotionally.

I don't know how to explain this to anyone so that they might fully understand. There are plenty of people out there who buy wigs; according to some of my girlfriends, it is becoming a popular trend among celebrities even. It's not an unusual practice, and just by wearing a wig, it isn't going to mark me as a freak. BUT...

this is new to me.

It didn't matter to me that there were about twenty people already in the store roaming around and trying on extensions and wigs. It didn't matter that they had rows and rows of hair products and a hairstylist section where you could sit down and have the wig shaped and cut to your liking after you had purchased it.

What hit me first was walking past the longer hair wigs. The ones that reminded me of what my hair used to look like. I think that because I have lived with this patchy baldness for the past two months already that I had grown accustomed to how it looks in the mirror. It wasn't until I approached the long haired section that I started to tear up. I touched the frayed ends of what is remaining of my hair now and realized that I almost couldn't remember what it felt like to have long hair. I almost couldn't remember what it was like to pull it back into a ponytail when it got humid and it used to stick to the back of my neck. I used to hate that, and it irritated me to the point of no return.

I would give anything to feel my hair press against my sweaty neck like that now. Anything.

That frightened me. I could barely remember. What did I look like? Why didn't I appreciate it more than I did when I had it? Did I really use to have those wispy bangs? Was I really able to have cute curls at one time? It might seem like I am clinging too much to a painful past, but I know for a fact that I never want to forget what that felt like. What it looked like. Because I know I have to keep the dream alive that I will get back to that girl again, for my own inner strength purposes.

My life seems to be filled with these complicated situations recently where I am flooded with an abundance of mixed feelings and emotions. Wanting and not wanting things, in particular.

A part of me was excited, hopeful, wanting to try every single wig on. The other part of me kept saying it wasn't time yet, emotionally, I just am not ready.

The girl who was walking around spotted me and came over.

"Do you need any help with anything?" she asked, with a smile, "Do you want to look at the wigs?"

"Well, yes, but I don't know where to begin. This is my first time in a wig shop. Do you have human hair and synthetic?"

"Yes, we have both. Human hair is marked with green tags, and synthetics are pink tags," she said, pointing to the rows on the wall.

"What is the main difference between the two, would you say?" I asked, nervously biting my lip. The longer I looked, the more the collection of wigs seemed to grow.

"Human hair can be styled with heat, and curled. The synthetic wigs cannot," the girl said, still smiling.

"Well, I noticed over there while looking at the longer hair ones that they were held on with a comb. Do you think that you have ones with Velcro holders?" I asked.

"The back comb ones? Well all of them come with the Velcro option. You just buy one of the hair wig nets and place them on first and then they connect with the top of the wig," she said picking a random wig off one of the plastic heads to show me.

My eyes widened a little at the unexpected move of how easily she pulled the wig off that plastic head. A minute ago it looked like an Asian woman's head with a nice full head of hair styled with girls, and now the hair lay in between her hands, lifeless. She turned it over to show me the inside.

"Do you see the clip here? You can adjust the inside so that it fits tighter on your head. Like a bra strap," she said as she unhooked the little piece inside of it and moved it over one to the next hook holder.

I nodded, "That's exactly what I was wondering. It's just that I have alopecia ...and I don't think I have enough hair to hold the back comb ones down."

I have gotten used to saying that word. I tried to incorporate it into my vocabulary so I wouldn't choke up anymore at the sound of it.

She nodded and didn't seem affected at all by my blunt statement of my abnormal-ness. What had taken me months to say outright in a few seconds, this girl took as a grain of salt. It's amazing how some stuff works like that.

After a short pause she walked back over and placed the wig back on the plastic head.

"So do you want to try one on?" she smiled.

No, no, no, said the inner me, it's too scary, it's too real. You're bald. You're bald. This is fake hair. Fake.

"Yes," said the outer me.

"Good, I'll be right back with a fresh wig cap," she said disappearing into the back.

In the middle of the wig section was a table and a swivel chair on one side and a stationary chair on the other. On top of the table with a big mirror.

The girl returned with a black sock-looking thing.

"Here," she said handing it to me, "Just put it on your head."

I stood in front of that mirror and slowly removed my hat. In the fluorescent lights of the store, my discolored scalp and bald spots looked red, irritated and enormous. I quickly stretched out the cap and placed it on top of my scalp and tucked in the ends of my hair.

"Alright, please pick out one that you'd like to try," the girl said once she saw the cap on my head.

I still was trying to get used to what I looked like with the black cap on. I turned around and looked up at the rows and rows of wigs.

After a few minutes of staring like a kid in a huge toy store, I looked at the girl with a nervous smile and laugh.

"I have no idea what I like... I want it to look real. I don't want it to look..." my voice dropped off. Mainly because the word I was looking for was 'wig'. Which was unavoidable at this point.

The girl gave me a kind of look. "Well, they are wigs. Just chose the style you want. Have fun with it."

I went to the other side of the plastic heads and stared at the row of mid-length hair pieces.

My eyes caught onto a mid-length black one with brown streaks. It caught my eye because it reminded me of the color of my hair before.

"Can I try that one on?" I asked, pointing to it.

"Of course," said the girl walking over to it already. She leisurely lifted it from the plastic head and motioned for me to sit in the swivel chair in front of the mirror.

I watched as she played with the "bra straps" of the wig on the inside to make it fit my head.

She motioned to the mirror to indicate for me to look into it while she placed the wig on my head for me.

I watched as she stretched the front on first, adjusting the hairline so that it fit on my head in the correct position. She reached underneath and towards the nape of my neck to straighten out the back of the wig.

And then she proceeded to comb it.

It was the weirdest, surrealist feeling I had ever felt before. I almost didn't want to look into the mirror because up to that point I had been staring at the table top.

When I lifted my eyes, I couldn't believe how real it looked. But it wasn't my hair. I shoved that thought into the back of my mind and tried to focus on the wig itself, and how it looked on my head.

At first it felt awkward, but once I started running my fingers through it, I got used to its look. It had wispy bangs, which would need to be cut once I bought it because they kept swiping into my eyes.

"I think it looks perfect on you," exclaimed the girl, standing back as if to admire her handywork.

"You do?" I asked, "you know, I really like it, too..."

But I didn't buy it. I had to sleep on it.

When I got home later on, I sat in my apartment with a glass of black raspberry wine and scribbled for three hours into my journal.

Today, I think I'll go back to purchase it. It's a big step. And even if I go out and buy it, I am not sure when I'd wear it out - whether I'd be comfortable with wearing it out or whether I'd spend the entire night wondering if other people thought I was wearing a wig. Or worse - knew I was wearing a wig.

One step at a time though, right?

A little John Mayer does a heart good...

"I believe/that my life's gonna see/the love I give/returned to me." - from Wheel


I'm not going to let anything stop me from being who I am. Once I start questioning why I do the things I do - they would stop being a part of what makes me unique.

I love that I'm a goober. I love that I wear my heart on my sleeve. I love that I am honest, even when it's really tough to be.


I love that life gives me the chance to experience the pain and the hurt in order to become a stronger person... but I also find it crummy.


I'm only human, and that's the best I can do.

Let me start where I feel comfortable.

I have this diamond. It's like this amazing gift that I came upon one day... it was in the disguise of a rock - but that's how all diamonds begin, isn't it? To appear as something mediocre and unusual... only to later find out that it is something precious, amazing, and beyond value.

I keep that diamond with me everywhere because it reminds me of everything good in my life with how beautiful it is to look at. It reminds me of everything complex in my life because of the cut, the prisms that connect, soak in the light and dispurse it in reflecting and refracting rays of colored rainbows. It reminds me of every single portion of my life that I treasure, the good and the bad, because no matter what happens to this diamond - its value will always hold true. Maybe not to an appraiser with his magnifying glasses pressed against his eyes - but if only to the diamond's owner: me.

This diamond that I have has scratches and nicks... but even those scratches and nicks have strong meaning to me. They allow me to keep all those memories to myself, every single scratch and nick on that diamond represents a time that I never want to forget.

And who am I to throw away the most valuable thing I own just because it has a few scratches on it? In the end, it's still a diamond, it's still gorgeous. I would be stupid to throw it away.

Most people do not understand this logic - but that doesn't matter to me. What matters to me is the relationship I have between myself and what I own - whether that be family, friends, my health... my hair. Regardless of what that diamond represents, no, especially of what that diamond represents is the reason why I keep it. The reason why it will always be something I treasure, I love, I give my heart to. And I don't regret that. It's taken me a crapload of drama, a lifetime of craziness happening in just a month - in just a collective amount of four years - to realize this.

Beauty in the Eye of the Surgeon

"A plastic surgeon has published a composite image of the ideal male Korean face. Rhee Seung-chul, the head of plastic surgery at Hanil General Hospital, made the image from the faces of 16 Korean Wave stars. Rhee had earlier done the same thing for women by making a composite image of 19 female stars."

Apparently, this computer-generated man to my left here is Korean male perfection in a nutshell. Personally, I think he looks a bit too effeminate but then so do most Korean male movie stars, IMHO.

I remember when I first saw "My Sassy Girl" when I was 10 or 11 years old; it was my first time watching Korean cinema. ---->

It was during my "Quest for Identity" stage where I was obsessed with buying Asian babydolls, Asian clothes, and random Korean commodities like some crazy American tourist. (which I guess, essentially, I am) So it was only fitting that I would be wanting of some sort of solid cultural evidence of the Korea that I had grown to love through picture books, tourists' pamphlets, and those bags of Shrimp Chips (I can't get enough of those things!) with the little dancing pink shrimp illustrated on the front that I would buy in bulk at Lotte.

So what kind of awesome cultural experience would I have while watching a movie that I envisioned thousands and thousands of my fellow Korean peers rushing to the movie theaters to see? The credits began to roll, and the title flashed across the screen.

Then a close-up of a pale Asian face comes into the camera view, and they zoom out. I notice how flat her face looks, how high her cheekbones are, how pale her face looks, how wide her eyes appear, and how thin her lips seem. Is this the image of utter beauty in Korea?

Another scene, I am patient. Here comes the dude. His face is fuller, but still flat, he has thin lips as well but his skin color seems to have a bit more pigment. His eyes are just as big as hers...but the way he presents himself is sort of feminine, and submissive. Is this the image of the perfect male in Korea?

I know that America isn't perfect. We have our own visions of beauty, and what is desirable and what isn't. We have coke-addicted models who starve themselves and live half their lives in toilet rooms, and we have rockstars who tattoo their bodies from head to toe and then go shoot some crack in the back corner to stay "heavy rock thin". But for some reason, these two characters that were presented to me in "My Sassy Girl" made it seem like they were more like cartoons than they were people.

But alas, at 10, I was young, foolish, and impressionable. I suddenly saw this picture of a seemingly "gorgeous, perfect" Korean woman and wanted nothing more than to be her. I started going to the Korean beauty parlor down the street, wanting long black hair, extra straight. I wanted to have pale skin like all of my other friends did (but was too chicken-sh-t to buy the bleaching lotion at the Lotte beauty counter) and would hide for hours from the summer sun because I tanned too easily. I wanted wider eyes (and alas, I have to admit, I still to this day kind of wish that I still did have sangkapul...) so I would allow my Joann-unni to tape my eyelids with cosmetic tape to create the 'illusion' that I had a second fold before church service started.

I look back at those days and think of how silly I was. And how comfortable I am finally in the skin that I am in now. It took me forever... and I think I am still learning to accept things - because there will always be obstacles in life where you're faced to question what you believe in yourself, and how you view yourself. Especially for the first half of this year, for me.

I hope that this next younger Korean generation will not be so easily swayed by this ridiculousness. Computer-generated people are not REAL people. They are mounds and mounds of Botox injections. They are threads and threads of mini stitches in their faces, their chins, their necks, their stomachs. They are artificial in every sense of the word.

And eventually, the more plastic you become on the outside - the more plastic you're bound to become on the inside.