One month after I completed chemotherapy for Stage 3 breast cancer, and two weeks after I underwent a double mastectomy, I sat in bed, my surgical wounds itchy, my morale at an all-time low. “I would pay $1,000 if I could have any real amount of hair right now,” I told my husband. He nodded, politely understanding, but his eyes widened. We owed a colossal sum on our taxes. I was on medical leave from my job. We were not exactly flush. But I was lying: I would have paid vastly more than $1,000 to have a real amount of hair on my head. I still would. I have played with different theoretical sums: $5,000? Maybe $10,000? Without hair I feel diminished, undone. My grief over my hair exceeds, I think, my grief for my disappeared breasts, or my health more generally. There are moments when I worry it will swallow me whole, moments when it inches dangerously close to despair. Next to the threat of death—the firm, cold gun against your temple that is …