"You can go get dressed, but don't leave the dressing room." "Okay," I answered. I stepped reluctantly from the armored room, unsure which direction the room was, and throwing caution to the wind ambled to the left, and then to the right, and amazingly, I found my room. What if the door won't unlock? I thought, appraising the space beneath the door and floor; I did not have the best luck with locks, and remembered many a time when, on a vacation, I could not succeed in entering the motel room after scouting for a can of pop. Mom or Dad would always let me in from their side of the door, while I was still fumbling with the key. The door opened easily and I signed with relief; from the inside I latched the door, still wary of the lock and key, and proceeded to dress. Several minutes passed, then a click from the loud speaker broke the silence. "Lauren Isaacson... you are free to go." In other words, it was breakfast time and I galloped from my booth like a horse from the starting gate of a race. Hungry though I was, when I seriously began to attack my plate, nervousness uttered a complaint which I was eventually obliged to acknowledge; it was just as well; my stomach was not adjusting to the idea that it had to get back to work, and strongly repulsed a large meal. Even my small breakfast conjured rebellion and I sat on the edge of my chair, sweating and quite nauseated, while Mom finished her plate of food. I tried not to watch her eat; the sight of food, the smell of food... it was everywhere when I felt sick. Leaving the restaurant I found the fresh air to be a measurable improvement; at last, when my nausea subsided, the visions of food danced from my mind and haunted me no more. It was beautiful outside; autumn was reaching its peak of glory in Rochester and Mom and I poked about the streets, waiting for our early afternoon appointment at the Curie Pavilion. There was a slight chill in the air, despite the ample sunshine and our light coats provided the warmth we needed as we kicked through the leaves. It was always cooler than in Moline, it seemed; fall had not quite arrived at home. I was glad; I didn't want to miss the color of the oaks, the acorns and the busy squirrels around our woods either; I wanted to take it in, to wrap its vision in my memory so that it could never be erased... autumn at home... would have to wait another five days. Mom watched me with feigned happiness; she looked at my hair, a flowing, healthy mass of gold which cascaded about my shoulders, and felt sickened that it would soon be replaced by a wig. She knew that my hair was my foremost joy in the spectrum of physical traits and would be a difficult loss. Hair is vanity, to be sure, yet that observation counts little to the individual who must bear his bald reality with courage. Appearance does not make the person, but to say that it does not matter is a falsity.