Baby fuzz. Say the words and hearts start melting. See that soft, fine hair on an infant’s head and your hand automatically reaches out to touch, pat, or pet. Oohs and ahhs and a drawn-out “aw” spontaneously slip from your mouth.

Now imagine that same soft, fine hair on the balding head of a grown woman. On me.

In my world, talks of baby fuzz mean I have a spot of new hair growth. My baby fuzz is soft, but not cute. Certainly not ooh-and-ahh inspiring or aw-worthy. More like patchy. Well, more like one small patch on the left side of my scalp. Or a handful of hairs at my hairline. The hairs are blonde, fine, sparse. They come and they go. I don’t see them on the inside of my scarf, the pañuelo of the day. I don’t see them at the bottom of my shower drain or on my pillow. They just disappear.

I know better than to get excited about baby fuzz on my head. But I can’t help but be curious—what if? I find myself studying my head in the mirror. Touching, patting, petting it. Wondering: What if it were to grow back? What would I do?

It’s like playing the lottery. I know the odds are low, but even so, even when I forget to buy a ticket, I still like to think—what if? If I had a million dollars, ten million, a hundred million, what would I do? How would I spend it?

Of course I can’t know for sure until it happens. But I have a rough plan, at least for the lottery winnings.

For the hair, I have no such plan. If it did grow back–and I know people who’ve experienced re-growth–I wouldn’t know what to do.

It’s been so long since I’ve had hair, I no longer remember what to do with it. A couple of weeks ago my cousin asked me to put a new clip in the back of her hair and I froze. Do I grab all the hair with the clip or only a portion of it? Do I use my hands or is the clip grip sufficient?

I look at my niece’s long hair and I don’t remember how to twist it into a French braid.

I don't remember how much prep time to allow for hairstyling. I don't even own a blow-dryer. Or a curling iron. Or a snag-free ponytail holder.

But that’s not the hard part. I would relearn hair care if it came to that.

The hard part would be trusting a brush not to tug the hair right out of my scalp. I don't know if I could highlight my hair or perm or cut it ever again and not worry that it would cause a bout of hair loss. I would be afraid to wash it.

The hard part would be relaxing enough to let someone touch my hair. I don't know if I could allow a man to run his fingers through it or a small child comb it without wanting to check their hands, the ground, my head for loose hairs.

The hard part would be believing my hair would still be attached to my head when I woke up.

The hard part would be figuring out who I was all over again—with hair. After spending so much time learning to embrace myself without it.

I used to ask the Universe every day to give me my hair back. Now I’m not sure I could handle it. Even more important, I’m not sure I’d want it.

Better to have something I'm prepared for, like the million dollars.