“I’ve grown to love your bald head,” Todd told me in passing today.

I replied that he had become used to it after seeing it so often for five months. When I’m at home, I don’t put on a wig or hat unless I’m cold. I go commando a lot at home, and if the weather stays this hot, I may start going commando on the street.

So far, I’ve felt comfortable baring my head only when nobody is looking. I’m no Xeni Jardin.

I told Todd I worried that my hair might never grow back. It was thinning before my diagnosis; maybe the chemo just finished off those valiant but malnourished hair follicles.

“You’d be edgy,” he suggested.

“But I wouldn’t be Beth with beautiful hair,” I said, getting teary-eyed. (We’re talking Beth circa 1992 here.)

I was surprised when he told me he wished he had beautiful hair. When I met Todd, his hair, although thick and curly, was already receding, and he had always told me he was used to it. But perhaps not completely.