Pink Is for Hope

Tibetan bells chime softly as I open a door wreathed in pink roses. Pink letters spell out a welcome sign—Lovely Lady.

Soon I'll be greeted by some very special women. "My ladies," I call them. They mean the world to me. So does this shop. Yet if I had my druthers, I would close it down tomorrow, after nearly 30 years. Let me explain.

I was a young nursing student in California, full of idealistic dreams back in 1976. I didn't know where life would take me, but like many students, I felt a desire to make a difference.

I volunteered to help with a breast cancer support group that met at the hospital. Week after week women of all ages opened their hearts. Some spoke of side effects from chemo; others discussed the challenges of juggling family responsibilities with treatments.

But they had one thing in common—feeling like they lost their sense of normalcy when they lost their hair. "It's like I have no privacy," one woman said. "One look at my head and everyone knows what's wrong." 

"I can't even find a decent wig," said another. "Nothing looks like 'me.'"

Just a few weeks earlier, I'd accompanied my friend Carol on a trip to find a wig. Chemo had robbed her of her beautiful golden locks. We went all over town. Finally we ended up in a costume shop.

Suffering from a serious disease, Carol was lumped in with people getting dressed up for Halloween! It broke my heart.

Now, listening to these women, I discovered many of them had had similar bad experiences looking for scarves, clothes, even prosthetics. "I felt like a science experiment," said one. Finally, one night driving home from the meeting, I turned to the Lord: There must be some way to help these women. Show me how.

My mom had taught me to sew, so at least I could make scarves. And when it came to fitting and styling wigs, I'd attended classes for wig cutting. What if I opened a shop for them? A place where women experiencing breast cancer could be given undivided attention and feel, at least for a time, normal. A haven of sorts where they could find prosthetics, jewelry, clothes and wigs (nothing Halloweenish about it).

I found a cozy rental space and, in the fall of 1978, I set up a shop called Bare Necessities. I took to my new mission—making every square inch welcoming. Wigs of every color and style were displayed on mannequins. Saucy hats and scarves in every shade lined ivory dressers.

I hung verses on the walls. An open antique chest was home to inspirational books and pamphlets on breast cancer. I wanted women to feel as comfortable here as they did in a tearoom. 

Word spread quickly. "Finally!" cried one of my first women. "A place where I can shop and sit and chat with other women facing cancer. God bless you!"