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"He was approaching our table with a big grin on his face. I thought he was going to say something about my nine-year-old, who was eating a pound-and-a-half lobster. But no, the waiter from someone else&amp;#039;s table had something to say to me: &amp;quot;I love your hair!&amp;quot; he announced. Me too, but for a very different reason.  Maybe he was from New York City. When I&amp;#039;m in Manhattan, nobody stares at my hair. To New Yorkers, I must look like any other chic momma, or maybe a lesbian who has adopted two boys. Either way, I blend in there, and I like it.  Out here in the suburbs, however, the old ladies and children stare at my hair, which, four months after I finished chemotherapy, is best described as somewhere between Marine-home-from-Iraq and Annie-Lennox-back-up-singer. It&amp;#039;s simply not a look most women go for. Yet, in the city, I am chic. Out here, I&amp;#039;m a freak.  So when the waiter took such delight in my hair, I was pleasantly surprised. Finally, somebody in the suburbs digs my &amp;#039;do. Or maybe he was just jealous: He was bald. I know the feeling.  I prefer, however, to think that my hair re-growth has reached a crucial point. Nobody blurts, &amp;quot;I love your hair!&amp;quot; at a cancer patient. That&amp;#039;s like shouting &amp;quot;Hey, great cast!&amp;quot; at an avalanche victim. Maybe his compliment means that I don&amp;#039;t look sick anymore.  It appears that the waiter thought I&amp;#039;d actually had my hair cut this way, as though I took a major fashion risk and\u2014according to him, anyway\u2014succeeded. Maybe, even in the suburbs, I&amp;#039;m finally no longer a freak. Well, to bald waiters at Legal Seafood restaurants, anyway.  I, too, love my hair, because, it&amp;#039;s slowly reaching the point where I look chic\u2014or at least, normal. And that puts a big grin on my face, too. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/parenting/a2204/good-grief-012408/?src=shelter_footer>