That which I most detested surrounding the aspect of baldness was the wig itself, for although I was grateful for the mask it provided, I abhorred its artificiality. Wearing a wig was unnatural, especially at my age. People failed to recognize me. Moreover, it presented inherent problems of its own. It would shift precariously in a stiff wind, and a blustery day brought visions of it cartwheeling tumbleweed-style, across a street. I began wearing headbands, though definitely not in style, simply to assure that it remained atop my head. Another dilemma was the well-meaning oldster who still enjoyed pulling a child's locks; unaware and full of only good intentions, what would he have thought if his teasing gesture unveiled the entirety of my hairless skull? The wig, therefore, was mainly a social impairment, for it was during group situations that I experienced the majority of my embarrassment. Aspects which aided social interaction were my attitude and a light-hearted countenance. It is essentially one's appearance that opens the door to conversation and eventual relationships; and despite my different visage, I wished to remain approachable and self-secure with my health problem. I tried to nurture realistic, yet humorous outlooks toward problems, for a sickly person wearing a smile appears more inviting to others than one who shrinks within his ailment while displaying steadfast displeasure for his predicament upon his face. If one is open and jokes about his health situation, he is also less apt to evoke fear and hesitant inquiries from friends, and for that matter mockery from the ignorant; it is no fun to insult an individual who fully accepts himself and his problem, for there is no fuel to evince an emotional fire. I felt totally secure in my baldness only with my family and select individuals who neither balked nor poked sadistic mirth at my loss. The wig was worn on all social outings, of course, just as it was generally donned at home as well. Certain days, however, I elected to prance through the house without it; the wig was tiresome and hot, and my head needed to escape its smothering imprisonment during the day in addition to its nightly freedom. Happily, my parents did not seem to mind the sight of my head, claiming it was "kind of cute"; a more appropriate manner of expressing my parents' view of my loss of hair was to say it was a necessary evil which had been part of the "insurance plan," and therefore deemed as acceptable as it could have been under the circumstances. I was initially amazed that they could love a child having no hair, since appearances rated so incredibly high on the scale of societal importance, and my best feature had been obliterated. To think that people found me tolerable and remained a loyal friend touched deeply upon my heart.