hair, I felt like a freak. It's a very, very shameful thing for a woman. I've always been quite shy, and I worried about not being attractive. My hair was the only thing I liked about myself. I have two glamorous older sisters. Jenny's hair is bigger than Jayne's, but mine was the biggest and people used to comment on it. It was very dark, curly and feminine. It was the thing that made me feel OK about myself. Friends and family were wonderful, but you still feel incredibly alone. Everybody talks about practical things, like getting a wig, but nobody wants to discuss what it actually feels like to lose your hair. How could they? My mother did say things like "Oh Jo, I wish it had been me," which was sweet, but mostly we didn't talk about it. I can understand why. In a way, it's like someone is dying - what can you say? 'Losing your hair is, in some ways, like losing a limb. That sounds vain, but it's to do with your femininity and your sense of who you are. I do feel like something's been ripped away from me. How you look is very important and when you lose your hair, so much is taken away. I felt there was nothing

about myself that I could enjoy and like any more. I felt less than nothing. 'At first, I used scarves and hats, and then bought my first wig - a red, acrylic one. It was awful, like having a big, hot, itchy basket on your head all day. Most wigs are not very well-fitting, so even walking outside on a windy day is a nightmare. You feel vulnerable all the time, worrying it's going to come off and you'll be exposed. You never feel safe. Even if you're sitting in a restaurant, someone walking past could catch it on their cuff. I hated that wig so much that when I got home each night, I'd kick it across the room. 'I was single again, too, and the thought of meeting someone seemed impossible. I've always been shy with men, and probably

gave off the wrong vibes because I felt so vulnerable and isolated. I didn't want to go out, because I knew I would be noticed - and for all the wrong reasons. And when I did go out to a party or meet someone new, the first thing I'd blurt out was, "Hello, I'm Jo. I've lost all my hair." Then, there was usually a shocked silence. 'All my friends were saying, "Well, Jo, it can't get any worse." And then all my body hair fell out. In some ways, that was worse. Losing your eyelashes and eyebrows is such a real, tangible thing - your face looks naked and even make-up can't hide it. And not having a hair on my body - no pubic hair, nothing at all - is so strange and inhuman. You feel like an alien. ' 'At the beginning, though, I managed to feel quite brave about being bald - I suppose I thought my hair would soon grow back. I remember one summer, I used to go out without a wig on. One night, some boys called me "slaphead ", which was a bit upsetting, but on the whole I didn't feel I was being stared at. Yet, I'd always want to wear a wig when I was meeting friends. It's easy