Maybe it's an Irish thing, or maybe it's just me. I'm just glad that I don't have to listen to myself. Monday of the week just past was a case in point. I was heading out to host a charity event and I had a bad hair evening.

Hairdryers and brushes are not meant to be used by non-hairdresser humanoids.

Despite numerous, albeit rushed attempts to sort it out, the inherited calf 's lick insisted on bouncing a massive section of hair on the top of my head up into a vertical trajectory.

Not a massive disaster I'll concede, but enough to make me huff and puff about it for a couple of minutes.

The event I was hosting was the Marie Keating Foundation Survive and Thrive Fashion Show. It's not a fundraiser, it's not even held to raise the profile of the organisation. It's held to celebrate the lives and spirit of women who have survived breast cancer.

The survivors, from all age groups, got up on the catwalk and modelled clothes for their friends and family in a defiant display of triumph.

Some of them were nervous as kittens and others, with a little help from the odd glass of champagne, revelled in the attention.

All of them have been through a nightmare.

These women have been in a room with a doctor and been told they have cancer. Time, at that moment, must just stop.

Who cares now about the stress of modern living, the vacuum cleaner that doesn't deal with all surfaces and the mobile phone that doesn't stop ringing? What matters now is your loved ones, your health, the burden you feel you will be placing on the shoulders of your family and, ultimately, your survival.

Then comes the treatment. Many of these vibrant women will have had part of their femininity robbed by necessary mastectomies. And the aesthetic side effect of the aggressive treatment doesn't stop there.

During the Survive and Thrive fashion show interval, Gary Kavanagh, who works for Peter Mark, spoke to me on stage about the intricacies of buying a wig once chemotherapy leaves you bald. It was a reality check that pretty much kicked my bad hair day into touch.

Gary described the distress his clients have gone through when the first clump of hair comes away in their hands and they are faced with the decision to shave the rest of it away, cut it really short or just leave it to fall out in its own good time. The horror of losing your hair, particularly for women cancer patients, is one that is all too easy to overlook.

The audience was made up of husbands, mothers, sisters, children and fellow cancer survivors or patients and the energy in the room was electric.

As the women marched down the catwalk, every step saying, 'I am here and I intend to stay, ' smiling eyes, some shining with tears, looked on with pride and admiration.

At one point in the evening, I crashed into Linda Keating who is the charity's whirlwind fundraising manager. As she barrelled off to sort out the latest organisational crisis which beset all these events, most likely involving a missing shoe or an extra chair, she said, "This is chaos, but you know, all these women are so special." And she is absolutely right.

I can't promise that I won't moan ever again after seeing these amazing survivors in action. In fact, I'd lay money on it that I have cribbed about lots of things since, but experiences like the one laid on by the Marie Keating Foundation help to keep life in perspective and give clarity about what really matters.