began.
As time went on, a bandanna replaced the hat, which could no longer conceal her balding scalp. With only a handful of wispy strands left, the time had come to buy a wig. Instead of trying to resurrect her once long blonde hair, pretending like nothing was ever lost, she opted for an auburn shoulder-length one. Why not? People cut and dye their hair all the time. With her new look, Alison’s confidence strengthened. Even when the wig blew off from an open window of her friend’s car, they could all share in the humor.
As summer approached, Alison began to worry. If she couldn’t wear a wig in the water, how could she lifeguard again? “Why, did you forget how to swim?” her father asked. She got the message.
And after wearing an uncomfortable bathing cap for only one day, she mustered up the courage to go completely bald. Despite the stares and occasional comments from less than polite beachcombers—”Why do you crazy punk kids shave your heads?”—Alison adjusted to her new look.
She arrived back at school that fall, no hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, with her wig tucked away somewhere at the back of her closet. As she had always planned, she would run for school president—changing her campaign speech only slightly. Presenting a slide show on famous bald leaders from Gandhi to Mr. Clean, Alison had the students and faculty rolling in the aisles.
In her first speech as the elected president, Alison addressed her condition, quite comfortable answering questions. Dressed in a tee shirt with the words “Bad Hair Day” printed across the front, she pointed to her shirt and said, “When most of you wake up in the morning and don’t like how you look, you may put on this tee shirt.” Putting on another tee shirt over the other, she continued. “When I wake up in the morning, I put on this one.” It read, “No Hair Day.” Everybody cheered and applauded. And Alison, beautiful, popular and smart, not to mention varsity goalie, ocean lifeguard and now school president with the pool-blue eyes, smiled back from the podium.
Alison Lambert with Jennifer Rosenfeld
Just Like You
By the time I was a junior in high school, two very important things had happened in my life. The first was that I’d fallen in love with a young man named Charlie. He was a senior, he was a football player, he was great! I knew that this was the young man I wanted to marry and have children with. Unfortunately, there was a serious problem: Charlie didn’t know I existed. Nor did he know that we had plans!
The second important thing was that I decided I did not want any more surgeries on my hands. I was born with six fingers on each hand and no knuckles. I had started having surgery on my hands when I was six months old, and had 27 surgeries by the time I was 16. The surgeons had taken away the extra fingers, shortened some fingers and created knuckles. I had been a young specimen paraded at times in front of up to 500 hand surgeons. While my hands were still not “normal,” I was done.
At 16, I figured I had the right to say, “Leave my body alone!” My family supported my decision, telling me I could have more surgeries as an adult. But I thought, Nope. I don’t need any more. This is how my hands will be. And that was that.
Growing up, I had a friend named Don. We had gone to school together since first grade, and we were really good buddies. One afternoon, Don came over to my house and we started talking about the junior-senior prom that was coming up, and our plans to stay out all night on prom night. We had no idea what we were going to do all night, but we were very excited about staying out.
Out of the blue, Don looked at me and said, “You really like Charlie a lot, don’t you?”
I answered, “Yeah, I really do.”
“But you know, Carol, there’s a problem—Charlie is never going to want you,” Don continued.
“Why not?” I asked. I know—I’ll dye my hair blond, I thought to myself. I know how
As time went on, a bandanna replaced the hat, which could no longer conceal her balding scalp. With only a handful of wispy strands left, the time had come to buy a wig. Instead of trying to resurrect her once long blonde hair, pretending like nothing was ever lost, she opted for an auburn shoulder-length one. Why not? People cut and dye their hair all the time. With her new look, Alison’s confidence strengthened. Even when the wig blew off from an open window of her friend’s car, they could all share in the humor.
As summer approached, Alison began to worry. If she couldn’t wear a wig in the water, how could she lifeguard again? “Why, did you forget how to swim?” her father asked. She got the message.
And after wearing an uncomfortable bathing cap for only one day, she mustered up the courage to go completely bald. Despite the stares and occasional comments from less than polite beachcombers—”Why do you crazy punk kids shave your heads?”—Alison adjusted to her new look.
She arrived back at school that fall, no hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, with her wig tucked away somewhere at the back of her closet. As she had always planned, she would run for school president—changing her campaign speech only slightly. Presenting a slide show on famous bald leaders from Gandhi to Mr. Clean, Alison had the students and faculty rolling in the aisles.
In her first speech as the elected president, Alison addressed her condition, quite comfortable answering questions. Dressed in a tee shirt with the words “Bad Hair Day” printed across the front, she pointed to her shirt and said, “When most of you wake up in the morning and don’t like how you look, you may put on this tee shirt.” Putting on another tee shirt over the other, she continued. “When I wake up in the morning, I put on this one.” It read, “No Hair Day.” Everybody cheered and applauded. And Alison, beautiful, popular and smart, not to mention varsity goalie, ocean lifeguard and now school president with the pool-blue eyes, smiled back from the podium.
Alison Lambert with Jennifer Rosenfeld
Just Like You
By the time I was a junior in high school, two very important things had happened in my life. The first was that I’d fallen in love with a young man named Charlie. He was a senior, he was a football player, he was great! I knew that this was the young man I wanted to marry and have children with. Unfortunately, there was a serious problem: Charlie didn’t know I existed. Nor did he know that we had plans!
The second important thing was that I decided I did not want any more surgeries on my hands. I was born with six fingers on each hand and no knuckles. I had started having surgery on my hands when I was six months old, and had 27 surgeries by the time I was 16. The surgeons had taken away the extra fingers, shortened some fingers and created knuckles. I had been a young specimen paraded at times in front of up to 500 hand surgeons. While my hands were still not “normal,” I was done.
At 16, I figured I had the right to say, “Leave my body alone!” My family supported my decision, telling me I could have more surgeries as an adult. But I thought, Nope. I don’t need any more. This is how my hands will be. And that was that.
Growing up, I had a friend named Don. We had gone to school together since first grade, and we were really good buddies. One afternoon, Don came over to my house and we started talking about the junior-senior prom that was coming up, and our plans to stay out all night on prom night. We had no idea what we were going to do all night, but we were very excited about staying out.
Out of the blue, Don looked at me and said, “You really like Charlie a lot, don’t you?”
I answered, “Yeah, I really do.”
“But you know, Carol, there’s a problem—Charlie is never going to want you,” Don continued.
“Why not?” I asked. I know—I’ll dye my hair blond, I thought to myself. I know how
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