I am not young. I am not pretty. I am not thin. I am not ashamed of my baldness.

I am in the prime of my life every day I am alive. I am beautiful in character and spirit. I am Rubenesque. I am boldly bald.

We are as much defined by what we believe we aren’t as by what we believe we are. The negatives shrink and limit us. The positives expand who we are and who we believe we can become.

There are hundreds of thousands of bald women in the world. The reasons vary from genetic to autoimmune confusion to chemotherapy to deliberate design. What if every woman who is bald took off their wigs and turbans and scarves and hats, shaved off straggling hairs, shined up their heads and went out into the world feeling ‘equal to’ instead of ‘less than’?

Dr. Seuss knew the answer and wrote a children’s book about it years ago called: The Sneetches.

THE SNEETCHES

by Dr. Seuss

Now the Star-bellied Sneetches had bellies with stars.

The Plain-bellied Sneetches had none upon thars.

The stars weren't so big; they were really quite small.

You would think such a thing wouldn't matter at all.

But because they had stars, all the Star-bellied Sneetches

would brag, "We're the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches."

With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they'd snort,

" We'll have nothing to do with the plain-bellied sort."

And whenever they met some, when they were out walking,

they'd hike right on past them without even talking.

When the Star-bellied children went out to play ball,

could the Plain-bellies join in their game? Not at all!

You could only play ball if your bellies had stars,

and the Plain-bellied children had none upon thars.

When the Star-bellied Sneetches had frankfurter roasts,

or picnics or parties or marshmallow toasts,

they never invited the Plain-bellied Sneetches.

Left them out cold in the dark of the beaches.

Kept them away; never let them come near,

and that's how they treated them year after year.

Then one day, it seems, while the Plain-bellied Sneetches

were moping, just moping alone on the beaches,

sitting there, wishing their bellies had stars,

up zipped a stranger in the strangest of cars.

"My friends, " he announced in a voice clear and keen,

"My name is Sylvester McMonkey McBean.

I've heard of your troubles; I've heard you're unhappy.

But I can fix that; I'm the fix-it-up chappie.

I've come here to help you; I have what you need.

My prices are low, and I work with great speed,

and my work is one hundred per cent guaranteed."

Then quickly, Sylvester McMonkey McBean

put together a very peculiar machine.

Then he said, "You want stars like a Star-bellied Sneetch?

My friends, you can have them . . . . for three dollars each.

Just hand me your money and climb on aboard."

They clambered inside and the big machine roared.

It bonked. It clonked. It jerked. It berked.

It bopped them around, but the thing really worked.

When the Plain-bellied Sneetches popped out, they had stars!

They actually did, they had stars upon thars!

Then they yelled at the ones who had stars from the start,

"We're exactly like you; you can't tell us apart.

We're all just the same now, you snooty old smarties.

Now we can come to your frankfurter parties!"

"Good grief!" groaned the one who had stars from the first.

"We're still the best Sneetches, and they are the worst.

But how in the world will we know," they all frowned,

"if which kind is what or the other way 'round?"

Then up stepped McBean with a very sly wink, and he said,

"Things are not quite as bad as you think.

You don't know who's who, that is perfectly true.

But come with me, friends, do you know what I'll do?

I'll make you again the best Sneetches on beaches,

and all it will cost you is ten dollars eaches.

Belly stars are no longer in style, " said McBean.

"What you need is a trip through my stars-off machine.

This wondrous contraption will take off your stars,

so you won't look like Sneetches who have them on thars."

That handy machine, working very precisely,

removed all the stars from their bellies quite nicely.

Then, with snoots in the air, they paraded about.

They opened their beaks and proceeded to shout,

"We now know who's who, and there isn't a doubt,

the best kind of Sneetches are Sneetches without."

Then, of course those with stars all got frightfully mad.

To be wearing a star now was frightfully bad.

Then, of course old Sylvester McMonkey McBean

invited them into his stars-off machine.

Then, of course from then on, you can probably guess,

things really got into a horrible mess.

All the rest of the day on those wild screaming beaches,

the Fix-it-up-Chappie was fixing up Sneetches.

Off again, on again, in again, out again,

through the machine and back round about again,

still paying money, still running through,

changing their stars every minute or two,

until neither the Plain- nor the Star-bellies knew

whether this one was that one or that one was this one

or which one was what one or what one was who!

Then, when every last cent of their money was spent,

the Fix-It-Up-Chappie packed up and he went.

And he laughed as he drove in his car up the beach,

"They never will learn; no, you can't teach a Sneetch!"

But McBean was quite wrong, I'm quite happy to say,

the Sneetches got quite a bit smarter that day.

That day, they decided that Sneetches are Sneetches,

and no kind of Sneetch is the BEST on the beaches.

That day, all the Sneetches forgot about stars,

and whether they had one or not upon thars.

So, what will it take for folks to forget about hairs and whether they have some or not upon thars? It will take living bald boldly.

It will take giving folks the opportunity to see women bald and get over the initial shock. It will take standing up to prejudice and discrimination. It will take patience as folks stumble through the process of learning new intercommunication skills and manners as their perceptions stretch and shift. And perceptions will stretch and shift. It’s a domino affect.

The change comes first within the hearts of bald women. When you can say, “I’m bald”, with the same confidence you can say “I’m blue eyed,” "I'm black skinned", "I'm 58 years old,"

- you’re there.

The obvious questions are: how do we get to that place and why would we want to?

I'd been a short-hair-girl most of my adult life, and considered hair a nuisance.

Oh, sure, hair could be pretty, really lovely at times. But what about those other times? You know – when you wake up in the morning with chicken-butt hair at all odds and angles? When your hair outgrows your color and the shadow of your smile is eclipsed by shadow of your roots? What about all the time and money for cuts and coloring and perms and straightening and a line of products as long as the imaginations of the hair care gurus?

And it doesn't stop there. Noooo...then comes the eyebrow tweaking and the nose hair trimming and the mustache waxing...and those goat beard chin hairs!

I imagined it would be great to be like Yule Brenner or Telly Savalis or even Mr. Clean. They had no hair on their heads and were considered exotic and sexy. Why couldn't it be that way for women too? Science fiction gave us some bald females...but you had to be alien to be bald and exotic and sexy. Baldness in real women in the real world was associated with illness, undesirability and shame.

Innately unfair. Still…reality. So I groused and did the hair thing.

Then I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. One of my ovaries was as big as a lemon. The other had grown to the size of a melon. Both were full of cancer. I joked that between chemo and radiation I'd surely turn into Mrs. Clean...free of chicken-butt hair at last. But I was blessed. After a total hysterectomy my oncologist announced he’d gotten everything without puncturing the ovaries and I would be spared both chemo and radiation.

Then, three years later, a severe stress reaction resulted in alopecia universalis. Patch by patch, here a clump, there a clump, everywhere a clump, clump, arm hair, nose hair, ear hair, every hair. The process was not as cool as I'd imagined, except for shedding those darn chin hairs.

I'd made a date with a girlfriend for lunch and a movie. When she saw me, she wrapped her arms around me and said, "Pammy, we're going to lunch and a wig shop. I've seen dogs with mange look better than you do." Now, that is a true friend. After lunch, fortified by a split piece of Snicker's ice cream pie, we trundled off to the wig shop and had a blast trying on wigs of all colors, lengths and styles.

Not one to dither when I've found a direction that feels right, I had the rest of my hair buzzed and went home wearing my new wig. Some people thought I'd had my hair colored and styled. Some didn't notice anything. Some said I looked ten years younger. It was fun...until I started getting headaches from maintaining a tight enough fit to keep the wig on, yeast infections in my scalp, and watched the tracks of penciled on eyebrows erode down my cheeks in rivulets of sweat from my poor overheated head.

Casual physical contact became constrained. Is my hair on straight? Hugs became mine fields of snagging and sagging potential. Anxiety over the condition, position and stability of my fake hair took predominance in my thoughts. And I got angry - very, very angry that men could choose to deal with a balding condition by shaving their heads, shining them up and sauntering into the world to be viewed as sophisticated and virile, while most women felt constrained to hide.

That's when I said enough. I am who I am who I am. And who I am is plenty good enough. I took off my wig and put it away.

That’s when my adventure began.