While I was upstairs changing into my yoga pants and sweatshirt to walk to my car in the parking garage at 3 a.m. that night, I kept my wig on. "You got cancer?" one dancer asked. I told her I didn't. I said, "I have alopecia." She and the other girls came around me and said they knew what it was and that I shouldn't be ashamed. That I didn't need to cover up or hide behind anything cause I was pretty, however I was. "I mean, you weird, but you good weird," one said. They decided my name, "Heather," didn't suit me. They said, because of my silver wig, I was like a hurricane. "Your name is Katrina, but we gonna call you Trina."