It started falling out in the faintest of wisps — a few hairs at a time, the day after my second chemo treatment. Then this morning, most of my blond mop molted off my head as I brushed my hair after my shower. The shock of it made me cry. Sean hugged me close, then Sylvia scampered off to get me one of the cute hats I've collected for the months of baldness that lie ahead.

After dinner and Tyler's soccer practice tonight, Sean and the kids lovingly took turns shaving my head, with Katy Perry belting "Roar" in the background. Tyler struggled through it, clearly spooked by the sight of me with most of my hair in clumps on the floor. Even Pepper (our pug) wigged out a little, at one point staring straight at me and growing deeply as if to say, "Who in the F are you, lady?! Where's Lizzie?!!!"

I knew this day would come, and I talked a good game about being ready for it. I wasn't. But I'll get over it. As I walked upstairs to see if I could shower my head smooth so my hats wouldn't keep snagging on needles of stubble, Sean said, "Lizzie, you're beautiful. You've already got a little bit of that Grace Jones thing going on." After my shower, Sylvia pulled me aside and said she had a song to play for me: Just the Way You Are. My eyes got misty when she said, "Listen to this part, Mommy."

"When I see your face

There's not a thing that I would change

'Cause you're amazing

Just the way you are

And when you smile

The whole world stops and stares for a while

'Cause girl, you're amazing

Just the way you are."

Some cancer warriors I know have said getting over the shock of hair loss was hard. I didn't expect to struggle with it, really. But here I am, surprised at Sean's astute observation that I bid my left breast good-bye with greater ease than I did my hair. My best attempt at an explanation: I don't have to show the world my ex-breast. I do have to get used to running into people at my kids' school or work or on a jog who haven't seen me in a while and say, "Yep. Cancer. I'm doing great, all things considering. How was your summer?" In one of the many pep talks he's given me over the past few months, my brother wrote me today that I should view my bald head as a badge of courage. I'll give that a try, even on the days when my weariness with cancer doesn't make me feel especially courageous. Before the head shave today, I tried to keep these words from Malcolm Gladwell's David and Goliath in mind as I added four additional chemo dates to my calendar in November and December — after learning that I'll need 16 total treatments, not 12 as my oncologist had previously advised:

"Courage is not something that you already have that makes you brave when the tough times start. Courage is what you earn when you've been through the tough times and you discover they aren't so tough after all."