““Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.” ”

— P G Wodehouse, 'Very Good, Jeeves!'

I have written about my misadventures with the world of haircuts before - well, actually, probably more so with the world of haircolouring, and what one really, really ought not do.

This is inclusive of, but not limited to, dyeing one's own hair an even brighter shade of red in an all white bathroom (Psycho comes to mind), dyeing one's own hair in a hurry (big missed patches) and pretty much dyeing one's own hair full stop.

I may also have to write a post at some stage about the dangers of overuse of the word 'one' and how it leads to being ostracised by friends and family but that will have to wait.

Today is, as is usually the case with this blog, (well, it's mine after all) - about me. And my hair.

Vanity, thy name is, quite possibly, Kate.

I have cut my hair.

Short.

As in, short, short. Anne Hathaway getting into character for Les Mis short. I did draw the line at having my teeth pulled admittedly.

I expect the world to now stop and enter a period of official Kate Hair Mourning (length of said KHM to be determined - I am thinking about two months - I'm not Queen Victoria for the love of lambchops), and for everyone to buy me some really nice shoes to help me cope with this traumatic event.

Let me explain - because I know you are thinking 'she cut her hair - big whoopsies - what a superficial trollop' and calmly going on with your Sunday brekky (I hope you're having something yummy. Like bacon. Mmmmm. Bacon).

This was a bit of a no choice haircut. Because, despite the delightful treatment I am on for my even more delightful current munchy little cancer promising me the world in terms of 'less hair loss than last time' - this week saw the dreaded return of the bathroom floor of death.

Lotsa hair. Everywhere.

Now, I am massively lucky. I know this. I just like whinging. Not only do I have a very early stage and treatable cancer, I am not likely to lose all of my hair, unlike friends who are currently undergoing far yuckier treatment - it just gets thinner and doesn't feel like 'my' hair. But it also doesn't look crash hot in long stringy strands that casually come out in my fingers when I do my model turn of whipping my head around as I chat to someone - and then watch their face as my hair ends up in their drink.

And possibly their food. And their handbag.

You get the picture.

I have Osky the Spy's fur to contend with. My house does not need two Kats shedding.

So the chop it was.

And after I stopped sobbing, I was actually quite happy.

Well, I will be.

Present tense needed. Not past.

And the colour's nice!

Oh bugger it. It's just hair. There are more pressing issues at hand. Like world peace. And the craptacular state of Australian rugby. And shoes. I am off to eat some bacon. And look at pictures of girls with short hair. Or possibly Alexander SkarsGod with no shirt on.

I wonder if he'd like it?

If you have a friend or family member with breast cancer, try not to look at her with ‘sad eyes.’ Treat her like you always did; just show a little extra love

— Hoda Kotb

This month, as thankfully a large proportion of people know, is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. What a large proportion of people don't perhaps know is that I am a breast cancer survivor.

I am one of the lucky ones.

Breast cancer has tried very hard to beat me. It is a crappy, crappy disease which, like all cancers, becomes not just a part of the sufferer's life, but impacts on everyone around them. It is insidious and it is scary as hell. People who love you have to watch as you get sick from chemo, get sick from radiotherapy, get sick full stop. And there is usually very little that they can do to help, which can end up in alienation through frustration and sometimes, a lack of ability to cope with the heartache.

So many amazing women go through breast cancer. Most of them do it quietly and without any fuss - because, well, that's what you do. You suck it up. You get on with things. Because if you let it get the upper hand - and I am talking mentally, not physically - then game over.

I was incredibly lucky. I got through with some serious yuck times, but I got through - and I was able to keep working, keep things together, and not go into the doona zone too often. Mainly due to having amazing people who supported me with empathy, and their own strength, and sometimes just making me chicken soup. Not everyone is as fortunate as me, and sometimes that produces 'survivor guilt' - and the reason why I am making my own fight public.

I don't necessarily agree with everything that goes along with '#Pinktober' - do I want to buy KFC because the bucket is pink? Not particularly (I'll buy it because it's bad for me mind you). What I do agree with is raising awareness. And that's why I am writing this post, which is not easy; in fact it has taken me a long time to get these words on the screen. Who knew that saying 'I have had breast cancer' publicly would be so hard? Maybe it's because my fight isn't over yet; maybe it's because although I am open about a lot of things, this is something I fought very privately.

All I ask of you this month, and every month for that matter, is this.

Check your breasts. Yes, men too. Breast cancer isn't picky. It attacks young women; it attacks blokes. It attacks anyone it feels like to a certain extent.

If you feel something that's not quite right, go to your doctor. Do NOT leave it thinking 'oh, I will get it seen to eventually'. This attitude has provokes some of the saddest lessons - which, unfortunately stay with the people who loved, not the one who was loved. They're gone.

And if you want to support those who haven't been so lucky, give to reputable organisations who will use the funds for research, and nurses in the community, and practical support.

By the way, I hate pink. I would love for #Pinktober to be #Blacktober. Because that's a way cooler colour.

I bet Angelina Jolie would agree.

The Hair Apparent

Check One, Check One, Two