Wig, Boob, and a Secret Little Spark

Wig, Boob, and a Secret Little Spark

🌼 Date: Friday, May 8, 2026

⚡ Energy: Nervous excitement with a side of closet panic

💓 Status: Planning from the bald head down instead of the shoes up

😘 Outlook: Authentic Tina is reporting for duty

Today brought me a little spark of exciting news.

I am not going to share all the details here, because sometimes the internet is a little too internet-y, and sometimes people from real life read the blog.

And by “real life,” I mean the people who know enough to make things awkward if I hand them the whole script before the next scene even happens.

So for now, I am keeping some of the details tucked safely behind the curtain.

But I will say this:

Something came my way that made me feel seen.

Something that made me excited.

Something that made my brain go, Oh. Okay. Maybe we are not just surviving right now. Maybe we are still moving forward.

And that is a big deal.

Because when you have been living inside cancer treatment, it can start to feel like your whole identity has been reduced to appointments, labs, scans, side effects, medication instructions, and whether or not your skin is currently trying to escape your body.

Then suddenly, something good shows up.

A possibility.

A door cracked open.

A tiny little reminder that I am still a whole person with skills, experience, personality, and a future that is not just scheduled in 4–6 week increments.

Naturally, after about three seconds of feeling excited, my brain did what my brain does best.

It immediately launched into crisis planning.

Because apparently I cannot simply receive good news and say, “How lovely.”

No.

My brain heard exciting news and said, Wonderful. What are we wearing?

And that is where things got complicated.

For those of you who know me, this will make perfect sense:

I usually plan my outfits from the shoes up.

I am a bit of a shoe diva.

Okay, fine.

Maybe “a bit” is doing some very heavy lifting in that sentence.

Shoes are the foundation. The mood. The personality. The entire business plan.

But now I am in a totally different playing field.

A weird, unfamiliar, post-chemo, post-radiation, one-boob, peach-fuzz, sensitive-skin, medically dramatic playing field.

And let me tell you, this is not the glamorous makeover montage I was promised.

My first big question was:

To wig or not to wig?

Because even though I have some peach fuzz growing back — probably somewhere between 1/8 and 1/4 inch long — I still get the same looks I got when I was shiny bald.

You know the look.

That quick little scan people do when they are trying not to stare, which somehow makes it even more obvious that they are absolutely staring.

The look that says, “Oh, cancer,” even when no one says it out loud.

And I am not embarrassed to be bald.

Not even a little.

This bald little head has earned its place in the room.

But I also do not want to walk in and instantly become a walking cancer billboard.

I do not want people to see cancer before they see me.

I do not want someone quietly wondering if I am too fragile, too sick, too complicated, or too risky.

And yes, I know legally health is not supposed to factor into decisions.

I know that.

We all know that.

But we also know how the real world works.

When it comes down to final decisions, people absolutely think about possible future absences.

They think about medical situations.

They think about whether someone might need time off.

I have seen it happen.

Whether it was a person with a newborn, a medical condition, or some other life circumstance that made them look “complicated,” people find ways to make the safer choice and then wrap it up in a nice little HR-approved sentence.

“We have decided to go in a different direction.”

Please.

Give me a break.

Find some balls and tell me the truth already.

And whatever you do, please do not send me some cold form letter that basically says, “A decision has been made, and surprise, it was not in your favor,” with no actual feedback, no explanation, no humanity, and no useful information whatsoever.

Because you know me.

My creative brain will fill in the blanks.

And she is not kind.

She is dramatic.

She is mean.

She writes entire rejection novels by lunch.

So yes, the wig question mattered.

Not because I am ashamed.

Not because I feel like I need to hide.

But because I had to ask myself what version of me feels strongest walking into that room.

And the answer is:

No wig.

I feel more confident without it.

The real Tina shines through when I show up as myself, not when I am trying to hide behind fake hair that will probably make me feel sweaty, itchy, distracted, and like I am playing a character in my own life.

Cancer has already taken plenty.

It does not get to take my authenticity too.

So the head decision was made.

Bald-ish Tina is going.

Peach fuzz and all.

Then came the next question.

And this one is where I am really struggling.

One boob or two?

Because apparently this is my life now.

Some people wake up and wonder whether they should wear the black shoes or the leopard flats.

I wake up and wonder if I should visually balance my chest for the comfort of other people.

Cool cool cool.

I am not planning to go in wearing just a T-shirt and jeans. I want to look polished. Professional. Put together.

But most of my dressier tops are definitely going to show that I am currently a uni-boober.

And here is the honest part:

I am not uncomfortable living with one boob right now.

I really am not.

Most days I am in my compression tops with a hoodie over everything, and it is not that obvious unless someone is really looking.

But dressier clothes are a whole different beast.

Dressier clothes have opinions.

Dressier clothes like structure.

Dressier clothes do not always understand that one side of my chest retired early and the other side is still reporting to work.

I also cannot comfortably wear a bra right now because of the radiation reaction I still have.

The skin is still tender, irritated, and not interested in being trapped under elastic, hooks, wires, or anything that looks like it might have a customer service complaint attached to it.

And if I tried to wear a bra with a prosthetic on the right side, I know my brain would not relax.

Not for one second.

A little piece of my mind would be worrying the entire time.

Is it staying in place?

Are they even?

Is one side higher?

Did it shift?

Do I look lopsided?

Can they tell?

Am I sitting weird?

Is my fake boob trying to make a break for it?

And honestly, I do not need that running in the background while I am trying to be impressive.

I already have enough tabs open in this brain.

So I am leaning toward going with one boob.

Just me.

As I am.

But then the fear creeps in.

What if they are thrown off by it?

What if they notice?

What if they do not know where to look?

What if I walk in and instead of seeing Tina — experienced, capable, funny, organized, reliable, and ready — they see Cancer Tina, the limited edition collector’s item with one boob and no hair?

And that is where I have to remind myself:

Hello.

My eyes are up here.

My brain is up here.

My experience is up here.

My leadership, my humor, my work ethic, my resilience, my problem-solving skills, my ability to walk through absolute hell and still show up — all of that is up here.

The missing boob is not the headline.

The peach fuzz is not the headline.

The radiation skin is not the headline.

Cancer is not the headline.

I am.

And if I walk into that room acting like I am something to be pitied, people may follow my lead.

But if I walk in like I belong there?

If I walk in confident?

If I walk in as the full, real, slightly lopsided, completely determined Tina?

Then that is the energy I bring into the room.

Not shame.

Not apology.

Not “please ignore the obvious.”

Just presence.

Just truth.

Just me.

And honestly, after everything this body has been through, maybe walking in exactly as I am is not a weakness.

Maybe it is power.

Maybe confidence does not always look like perfect hair, a matched set of boobs, and shoes chosen first.

Maybe sometimes confidence looks like peach fuzz, one boob, tender skin, and deciding, You know what? I still belong in every room I walk into.

So that is the plan.

No wig.

Probably one boob.

Hopefully great shoes.

Definitely Tina.

And whatever happens next, I want to know that I showed up as myself.

Not the edited version.

Not the hidden version.

Not the “please don’t notice I’ve been through hell” version.

The real one.

The one who has survived surgery, chemo, radiation, lotion betrayal, antibiotics from the depths of Satan’s medicine cabinet, and the emotional Olympics of trying to rebuild a life while still healing from the one that got body-slammed.

The one who is still here.

Still funny.

Still capable.

Still slightly feral.

Still planning outfits around shoes, even when cancer tries to complicate the whole damn closet.

So here we go.

A secret little spark.

A closet full of decisions.

A bald head.

One boob.

And a woman who is about to walk into that room like she has every right to be there.

Because she does.

---

Want to follow the journey from the beginning?
Visit Tiny Tina – Status: Alive (Daily Check-Ins) to see the full timeline of posts.

If you’d like to be notified when a new post goes live, you can subscribe below for free and get an email each time I publish a new entry.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time