Since a cancer diagnosis and treatment, these past six months have shown me the importance of nourishment of the soul, as well as the body. But there was one thing along the way, that no matter how much I believed in mind over matter, and the power of healthy foods, that had to succumb to chemotherapy: my hair.

Being a redhead has defined me my whole life.

From the time my father (so I'm told) proudly announced to relatives "We have a redhead!" through the years of teasing - "Carrot Top!" "Little Red!" "Milkman's Daughter!" - to teen years and beyond when I finally embraced my fiery tresses, my hair has been my standout feature.

In a town where blonde Swedes and dark-haired Native Americans dominated the scene, where our French Canadian heritage produced largely dark-haired, dark-eyed family members, having that Norwegian combination of red hair and blue eyes was a rarity. I felt at one with the few other redheads in town, and very much identified with my grandfather, whose Norwegian blue eyes still twinkled, but whose red locks had long gone the way of dinosaurs. Still, I cherished the knowledge that of his four children and 12 grandchildren, I was the only redhead among them.

Granted, silver threads among the gold in recent years have made my red hair lean toward the blonde realm. Nonetheless, it remained a coloring still noticeable in a crowd. When meeting new acquaintances in a public space, I always included "I'll be the one with red hair."

So when treatment for cancer stole away this identity, coping with it became one of the hardest pieces of dealing with the diagnosis and follow-up of chemotherapy and radiation. Losing hair is a humbling experience.

Babies are adorable with just a puff of hair on top… But this is a society in which bald men get barely a second glance; women without hair, however, are either viewed as some kind of extremist or a member of a subculture.

Or, worse yet, when the last strands of hair fell from my head, I felt identified as a cancer patient, the tell-tale caps and scarves a dead giveaway to what was not beneath.

Losing my hair has marked me. Strangers are comfortable coming up to me to offer solace. Casual acquaintances offer condolences and support. Friends and families have done their best to boost my morale, though only those who have endured the humiliation of hair loss can truly understand how a woman's hair is so much more than a visual statement.

Losing my hair - and eyelashes and eyebrows - has also been eye-opening, and not just because my blue eyes are now the focal point.

I am stripped down to the essence of who I am. The mirror reveals the precise shape of my head, the only slightly off placement of ears, a bony structure that is a phrenologist's dream.

But this minimized version of myself has helped me learn the value of what I do have: family, friends, an understanding employer, and supportive colleagues. What I have lost has been balanced by what I have gained: willpower, patience, gratitude, humility.

Losing my hair is the shocking reminder to me that anyone is vulnerable to cancer. My hairless scalp reminds me that cancer has no qualms about taking down even the "healthiest," among whom I thought I was.

Still, I miss my hair. I miss its warmth (I empathize with the bald now), I miss its normality, I miss griping about the style, but most of all, I miss the color.

There are many more terrible side effects of chemotherapy, and far worse things about a cancer diagnosis. I am grateful that I can dwell on one that is temporary. I am on the other side of treatment now. My diagnosis was early. I am alive. I will come out of this a little stronger and a little more fearless.

Still, I long for that day when I will once again send new friends the message, "I'll be the one with red hair."

The standout in the crowd. Nourished by the best.