Not because I have long hair (anymore), but because my pink hair makes me invincible. Dyeing your hair bright pink and making it as noticeable as possible commits.

When I walk down the street, people stare. What they see is a fat, 40-ish woman with bright pink hair looking like she’s trying to be a good luck troll. And because a lot of people lack manners, they stare, as if I’m some sort of one-woman freak show.

Which I am (in a way). What they don’t know, is that their staring just makes me lift my chin that much higher, and straighten my back just a touch more, and if I’m really lucky (for instance, if I’m sitting on a train) someone will phone me and I can tell the person on the other end how my check-up with the oncologist went and about how there are so many rude people staring at me and how goddamn stupid I find them.

That usually makes them turn their head away in shame, or they’ll put on their music, cos people love hearing about other people – just not other people’s cancer.

Sometimes, pink hair initiates conversation with people who are curious (I don’t think for one second that anyone thinks I’m a punk or crazy). And I’ll tell them that this is my breast cancer hair, and we skip the awkward “OHMYGOD I didn’t know, I am so sorry” cos pink hair – you’re not looking for apologies, you’re open to talking about it.

In the past nine weeks, since I first went pink, I’ve had quite a few conversations with strangers – not that I particularly enjoy talking with strangers (I am an introvert, after all) – and they’ve been good conversations. I’ve told them my story, we’ve talked about signs and the importance of knowing your what your own breasts look like by default. We’ve talked about treatment and discovery, and I’ve told them how most tumours can go unnoticed for a year or two – in spite of mammography – because they usually grow so slowly.

And stnading straight and walking tall is good for the body, so I figure my physical therapist will be pleased, too.

And if just one woman manages to spot a tumour early, then it’ll be worth all the glares and stares and rude whispers…