I've learned something amazing in the last couple of weeks: that hair is like milk. Quite a small amount looks like a lot, when it is spilled all over the floor. And there's no use crying over it.

On Monday I had my second chemotherapy session, for breast cancer, and the aspect of the procedure I was dreading most was sitting for several hours with a "cold cap" on my head, designed to freeze my hair follicles so that they can't absorb the chemicals that will damage them.

Is it working? Hard to say. Each time I tug a little lock of hair, loads of it comes away in my hand, though there seems to be plenty left. Yet I'm not quite a month in, and I'm told that I won't know if it will all go until the end of week four. Anyway, after three sessions using three chemicals, I move on to three sessions using a different one, that the cold cap doesn't work so well on.

Is it worth the worry? Or should I shave my hair off now, and have done with the stress and the fear? In a way that would be a relief – no cold cap to face, and the worst, hair-wise, will have come to pass.

Anyway, I have a plan. I've bought some Islamic underscarves online, and some pretty rectangles of chiffon. I can adopt the hijab until my hair grows back. I've always liked the look. And just imagine. I'm at some media do, in my pomp, and a big Islamophobe wanders over – Melanie Phillips for choice. "Have you become a Muslim," she asks sternly. "No, no, worry not," I reply, soothingly. "It's OK. Really. I just have cancer."