Angela had gorgeous thick blonde hair. Actually, it seemed to consist of many shades of blonde. Sunlight played with its gentle waves, creating a luminous swath that trailed past her shoulders. Once, back in high school, she got a permanent – remember those? – and her head resembled a sheep’s fleece. When we were kids, she and I went swimming in the ocean for hours, diving under the waves, chasing shells in the shallow pools of low tide. My mother tried desperately to comb out both the sand and the impossible tangle of knots that resulted from a simple afternoon of having fun, without making Angela scream bloody murder.

Even in late middle age, Angela’s hair refused to grow grey. Instead, it darkened somewhat during the winter, but come the spring it’d quickly lighten in the sun. I could only wish to be so lucky. Thanks to my hairdresser, I hid all of my grey under the color she applies to it every four to six weeks.

The other day while I was working, a text dinged my iWatch. I glanced at it. Angela asked if I was ready to care for her next week. She’s project managing her pancreatic cancer, assigning tasks to friends who volunteered to help her. It’s my turn to drive her to chemotherapy. I’ll keep an eye on her for a week, camping out on her sleeper sofa. Maybe I’ll bake some scones for her, or something light to eat. Nausea trashed her appetite. Rarely does she eat a full meal without feeling sick to her stomach. These days, it’s Ensure, broth or sometimes toast. She considered it a major victory that an apple she ate stayed down without a revolt from her stomach.

But it was the next message that got to me.

“I have two wigs now,” she said.

“It’ll grow back,” I said.

“It’s part of it, ya know. I’m dealing with it.”

I haven’t seen Angela in over a month. Back then, her hair hadn’t even thinned. It must’ve happened so very fast.

How much attention to people pay to hair? Think of all the products out there, all promising to make it fuller, thicker, shinier, brighter, darker, curly, straight. All of them fortified with protein, keratin, aloe vera, shea butter, olive oil, what-have-you. Or stuff that makes it stick straight up or flatten it down. There are as many hair dryers as there are people in China. We use curling or flat irons, bobby pins, hair ties, clasps, barrettes, hair bands to keep it in order or give it a style. Entire aisles in Target are devoted to hair products, both for men and women.

An entire industry of hair salons and barbers give it the shape we want. Billions are spent on hair commerce, so we can all impress people with how those curls frame one’s face, or the buzzcut that identifies a member of the military.

The way you wear your hair says more about you than anything, really. Long hair creates an impression of sexiness, while short hair can be serious. And you know what they say about mullets – business in the front, party in the back! Pink hair can be playful, even rebellious under the right circumstances. Blue hair has been the regimented color of many an elderly lady.

And yet, those confronted with cancer must witness the one thing that defines us disappear down the drain. It comes out in a small collection of strands, then seemingly overnight in fistfuls, then giant clumps. Finally, there’s none to pull from your scalp. Wigs help cover the loss, but do they ease the image we give to ourselves when our prideful mane has vanished?

My friend sees it as a path to survival. That once lovely hair of hers might be on hiatus, but it put the wigs on notice. So the hair disappeared. But like any good thing, it’ll be back, better than ever.

Now let’s hope that the pancreatic cancer goes the way of Angela’s hair, with a difference: never to return.