Outside is unseasonably warm for the end of January. The sun is warming my scalp, and I feel light both physically and emotionally. We take our new looks out for coffee. I expect stares but get none. Either the world really doesn’t give a shit about my lack of hair, or David is right and I look hot. He even goes as far as to insist we take a picture together and post it with #fuckyoucancer. So we do it. Hey, it gets the point across. I get over a hundred comments in an hour. I get emails. I get calls. I get stories that make me cry. I get offers of free manual labor. I am convinced this was the best way to break the news. Until my mom checks in. Why share, she asks. Why tell everyone? Apparently it’s a faux pas to show your cancer in such public manner. I disagree. It’s cancer, not fucking diarrhea. And I don't want to cover it up. I don't need a wig; I am sick, I am not a bad spy in disguise.