Bearded Woman

"Turn your face a bit more to the left. That's it...now tilt your chin up so your face catches the light," Michael instructed. A photo shoot? No, nothing so glamorous, I fear.

"Okay, now stick your tongue in your cheek like this so it stands out," he requested, pantomiming his own morning ablutions. As he brought the razor closer I had to control a guffaw - I've had plenty of self-conscious moments the past six months, but needing my husband to shave my face had to top the list of humiliations. Especially since he was the one who (very gently) pointed out that the white-blonde, downy hairs on my cheeks were starting to rival my head hairs in length.

"So it's not just the head hair that falls out - it's everything?" a colleague asked recently. "I mean, arm hairs too, for instance," he rushed to clarify as I arched an eyebrow in response.

Everything. From the convenient (leg hair) to the less convenient (head hair), the obvious (eyebrows) to the hidden (those little hairs inside the nose). And it all grows back at different rates. I spent 5 months in a wig but barely remember being without brows and lashes - less than a week after everything fell out, I started seeing stubble, which took only days to turn into respectable-looking features.

The appearance of facial hair was not greeted with such open arms. Apparently this is very common in women who go through chemo - you don't even notice the loss of the hair on the face, but it grows back in with a vengeance. All it takes to bring it in line is a light once-over with a razor for the do-it-yourselfers, or a wax for the anal retentive, but you still have to overcome the shock that results when you look in the mirror one day and see yourself sporting Wolverine's sideburns.

"There - beautiful as ever," Michael comforted me, putting the razor down and giving me a reassuring kiss on my (now hairless) cheek. Just one more way my wonderful family and friends have helped keep cancer from making me feel like a circus freak.