Hey, you. Did I ever tell you the one about why I don’t have hair? That’s actually an inaccurate statement. I have hair, just not in the places that matter. I have Alopecia Areata, a diagnosis that came at the end of that delightful year we call 2020. It’s an autoimmune disorder, (or as I like to call it, Colic for Adult bodies disorder), that causes hair loss in patchy areas or completely, meaning everywhere hair likes to grow. I have the patchy kind. Not the patchy kind that’s cool, fashionable, and can make you an Alopecia influencer. Mine is more Bozo the Clown-ish; pretty much straight down the middle of my head. I shave my head to make it an even playing field. Which basically means I have a 50/50 chance of people wondering if I’m ill or “so fire”. Why did I choose to tell this reverse Rapunzel story? It started while checking out at an H&M when a sweet assistant said, “You’re beautiful, by the way.” I happened to be rubbing my head at the time. I was a little speechless for a minute, but I thanked her and told her, “What a lovely thing for you to say.” As my husband and I were walking away he said, “See, babe, other people notice you’re beautiful too,” or something like that. I was too busy screaming at the voice in my head. It didn’t work though. I still heard the voice say, “Yeah, cause she thinks you have Cancer,” to which I loudly said in silence, “..And so what? It’s still a compliment. Now, shut up!” It didn’t shut-up if you were wondering. So here we are.
When my dermatologist told me I had the hardest hair loss to treat, I promptly went home and shaved my head. I did not hesitate. The end. Did I cry? Yes. Not because it was the first time I had shaved my head but because this time there was no assurance of it growing back. In 2016 I decided to get into hand to hand combat with my “demons.” I’m what you call a physically insecure person. I have body dysmorphia. It’s not severe, in that I can function and I don’t usually shy away from being out in public. Instead I just assume that when people are staring at me it’s because they find me fascinating. Not fascinating like an interesting and peculiar painting but like a bizarre unattractive animal. Either way, both are usually appreciated so it’s kind of a win/win…I think. I’m trying to tell this story without getting into the weeds, but it’s kind of hard. Basically, I was made fun of quite a bit growing up. I had crooked teeth that my parents couldn’t afford to fix which means we were not rolling in the deep, another caveat. I had nice hair though. People complimented me about my hair, so I latched on to that like a security blanket. It became my saving grace and my pain in the ass. It had to take the focus off of all my flaws so I could feel safe out there in the critical world. It had to be perfect. You can imagine how fun that must have been, being a person with body dysmorphia trying to achieve perfection in something she could only see as imperfect. That’s like being an actor and being insecure at the same time (she said a little too confidently).
Okay, back to those demons. At that point I was wearing my hair natural, in dreadlocks actually. “Natural” meaning no chemical processes to straighten my hair and no hair woven into mine (no judgment here FYI). Like untethering a child from its mother, I cut the cord. I shaved my head and forced myself not to hide behind those precious follicles. It was a bit traumatic. I cried a lot in the beginning. I felt naked all the time. I was vulnerable 24/7 and I still leaned into it. I learned from it. I figured by the time my hair grew back I would be a new woman, and I was. I became a pregnant woman. If you know anything about pregnancy, your body holds onto most of your strands for extra insulation. You typically have thicker more vibrant hair. Admittedly it was a bit of a learning curve. With dreadlocks, you don’t have to do a whole lot to maintain them but my hair was no longer locked. I had to research the type of curl pattern I had and texture, what kind of products to use and how to use them. I remember one evening reading about all of that stuff and I just burst into tears. My husband asked me what was wrong and I told him how ashamed I felt at not knowing what to do with my own hair. You may laugh at this, but it felt like I had betrayed my ancestors. I had allowed myself to be bullied and convinced that African American hair should be “tamed, processed, or whatever it took to look acceptable (#caucasian) for so long, that there I was a grown-ass adult having to read articles to explain to me about…me. Over time, I figured it out. Just when I had found my groove, when I thought I had accepted the way I looked separate from my hair, I had my son and it all went to shit (before you side-eye me, I do not blame my son).
Me with my sweet girl Carmella. She passed away earlier this year.
After pregnancy you have what’s referred to as “The shed.” This is a period where all that insulated fur you grew over 9 months, starts to fall right on out. It’s usually moderate but sometimes can be severe (which mine was), then it evens out and you kind of return back to homeostasis. People, including my doctors, kept saying, “Oh, your hair was short to begin with, so it just seems like it’s shedding more.” “Oh, for some women it can last a little longer than the average,” the average being around 4 months; mine lasted 2 years. That’s how old my son was when I said, “Enough is enough.” That’s when I went to the dermatologist, and well..you know the rest.
I’m on year 4 of shaving my head every couple of days. You see, I can still grow hair but in the middle of my head is a triangular shaped pattern where no hair grows at all. It’s just wide enough where the hair around it isn’t thick enough to cover it. I also have about a two inch spot on my right temple that’s almost as smooth as a baby’s skin (which is just as smooth as their butt. I don’t know why people always refer to the latter). In other words I can grow just enough hair for it to be obvious that I have bald spots. My eyebrows are 90’s “pencil them in” thin, but at least that wasn’t due to over plucking them (I mean I’ve got to count the wins where I can). I’ve thought about getting them permanently tattooed someday, but there are too many pros/cons for me to wade through. For now I wear temporary tattooed brows. That’s right, old school “put a wet towel and hold it there for 30 seconds” tattoo brows. I love them. I could kiss the person or persons who invented them!
Since I’ve been bald, I’ve heard a myriad of things and been asked an equal amount of questions. “Do you have alopecia?” “Why are you bald?” “I wish I had the guts to do that.” “It must be nice not having to do your hair all the time.” “You must save a lot on hair products?” “I could never pull that off but you have a great head for it.” “I think you’re brave.” “I think you’re bold.” “I think that takes a lot of courage.”
I am neither brave nor courageous, which really shows how much stock we put into hair by the way. I just made a decision based on the choices I had: cover it with wigs, which would give me more anxiety or go bare. When I see pictures of me with hair, I still tear up on occasion, and for a split second I think to myself, “Oh…I was pretty.” Which is bullshit, mostly because the woman in those pictures still hated what she looked like, which is telling. It’s the point, really.
The woman in the picture or who stares back at me in the mirror has nothing to do with hair. Yes, there are weird societal standards for women and their hair, just ask Simone Biles about that. There are not a lot of images of bald women linked to sexiness or attractiveness. She can certainly be seen as edgy, bossy, butch, bitchy, militant, and sick but not often feminine, warm or sexy. I don’t have control over that. I only have control over what I see and that’s why this had to happen.
This was a wake up call to a much bigger problem. I am now dealing with my dysmorphia on a deeper level. I would be lying if I told you that I see this gorgeous person every time I look in the mirror. I can say that more often than not, I think I look “okay,” which is a huge step for me. I have a good heart. I try to be a good person. I know I have value and that I matter. I am a decent human being. I hold love and space in a way that has attracted some of the most spectacular human beings in my life. I definitely can see the beauty in that. Perhaps that is what the H&M assistant saw in me that made her say, “You’re beautiful, by the way,” and every day, I get a little bit closer to feeling that way too.
**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in anyway that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.