I had few problems surrounding the wig after the first weeks of school, and the kids realized that I was not among the gregarious crowd, who would adorn themselves for amusement and attention, but rather sported the hairpiece through necessity. Although the "necessity" for my wig remained vague for certain individuals, other people were blatant in their curiosity; one such individual was the girl described as having "stared at my head," who wasted little time before quizzing me whether or not "that" was "a wig." I was almost relieved that she was bold enough to ask, for I hoped that, once her inquiry had been satisfied, she would cast her annoying gaze elsewhere. Masking any embarrassment I might have felt, I looked at her directly and admitted that, yes,I did wear a wig, and that I had to do so because I'd taken chemotherapy treatments for cancerous tumors in my stomach; the treatment made me lose my hair, but it would eventually return. Her gaze softened, and after assuring herself once again that my hair would grow back, turned around to face the front of the room. I heaved a sigh of relief and applauded the usefulness of honesty. As I reflected upon the various traumas associated with my lack of hair, I was amazed at the power which people wield over the moods of others whose lives are touched by their kind or abusive words or actions. My cousin Gary, who lives next door, came over one morning before I'd donned my wig, yet due to his natural and inoffensive attitude toward my appearance, I remarked in my diary that "He saw me while I didn't have my wig on, but it didn't bother me too much tho." How different was his reaction than that of another relative who lives across the country; this relative derived immense pleasure from forcible, obnoxious treatment of children, over whom he reigned absolute bodily control albeit their distaste for his repulsive presence. I attracted his sadistic attention in his later visits since I was the youngest of our family, and so it was that on one occasion he grabbed me in an attempt to make me sit on his lap, and I, struggling to free myself from his vise-like grip, found myself wrestled to the floor, pinned beneath the stench of his armpits and unwholesome breath. The more I writhed to flee from his ugly imprisonment, the more he seemed to enjoy his power. I looked around at the group of family members who encircled the living room, but no one found anything amiss in his actions, perhaps considering the scene of no more consequence than innocent horseplay. But I knew better; this was a man whose fixation for children passed beyond benign teasing and friendly adoration; something in his touch spoke of an urge to seize and capture, to hurt and control... his touch was wrong.