I couldn't bring myself to go to Carol's birthday lunch today. I spent an hour trying to style my hair, but nothing worked.
The top is so thin now that no matter how I arrange it, you can see right through to my scalp.
I used to have such beautiful silver hair – everyone always commented on it. Now I catch people's eyes darting to the top of my head when they talk to me, though they're too polite to say anything.
I've started keeping track of all the places I won't sit anymore – like the front row at church (people behind me can see).
It's exhausting, constantly thinking about it. Yesterday at the grocery store, a fluorescent light caught my reflection in the freezer door, and I could have cried right there in the frozen food aisle.
The worst part was last week when my little great-granddaughter asked me why she could "see through" my hair.
I tried to laugh it off, but I went home and sobbed.
I've started wearing scarves, but they make me feel like I'm screaming to the world that I'm trying to hide something.
My daughter keeps suggesting wigs, but the thought of picking one out, of admitting I need one... I just can't.
Even my shower drain tells my story – those thin, wispy strands that gather there seem to mock me. I find myself avoiding washing my hair, knowing each time means more loss.
This isn't how I pictured my golden years.
I feel like I'm disappearing, bit by bit, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
I know there are bigger problems in the world. I should be grateful for my health, my family, and everything else...
But when I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, all I see is this stranger with patchy, sparse hair where my crown of silver used to be.
Some days, I barely recognize myself anymore.