Shining, Gleaming, Streaming, Flaxen, Waxen

I'd like to take a moment, first and foremost, to acknowledge the events in Boston yesterday and voice my condolences. The mindless violence of this act has me reeling. I truly hope the victims, their families and friends find peace and healing in the months to come. 

It feels strange to post today, to say anything, really, that isn't related to what occurred yesterday. It is tempting to immerse ourselves in a tragedy like this, in the images being projected, and feel despair. But it is so important to maintain hope. I feel this is best accomplished by regaining a sense of normalcy, by continuing to laugh together, by refusing to ignore the good in this world. 

With that in mind, I wrote today's piece in an effort to make you all laugh. I guess the topic is one that some people do not find terribly funny, but it's all a matter of perspective, isn't it? I know that when I feel like a problem is overwhelming my life, I can consciously choose to change the way I look at it. When I make light of my problems, I instantly feel relief. So, I hope you enjoy this essay and find something humorous in it. 

The author contemplates her hair

I cannot begin to tell you how many I pluck off my clothes throughout the day. I constantly feel their presence, tickling my arms or the small of my back, and sure enough, there’s another one that I have to pick off and toss on the floor. Don’t even get me started with the shower. I’ll be doing my thing, shampooing and conditioning, singing a song, and – BAM! - there they are again, mocking me as they slide down my legs and disappear into the drain. “Bye, Hally!” they say as the cling to the side of the tub. “We tried to stick with you, but it’s just not working out!” I can’t deny it anymore. The facts are in and it’s time for me to accept the cold, hard truth: I’m losing my hair.

This isn’t a new struggle for me. I’ve always had a lot of hair, but it is very fine. This means that I haven’t been able to wear my hair straight back (in a pony-tail, say) without giving everyone a peek at my scalp since I was a teenager. I made do and wore my hair in a way that this wasn’t an issue. But then, about five years ago, things got worse. I began to notice that I was cleaning out my brush way more often. Stray hairs were appearing everywhere. “Maybe it’s just because I’m growing my hair out, so the strays are more noticeable,” I thought. Hahaha! Poor, naïve Hally. Before long, I had a bald spot the size of a silver-dollar pancake on my head. It was in an inconspicuous place, at least, and I was able to cover it up with other hair, but still, just knowing it was there gave me the creeps. I initially tried using Rogaine to correct the problem. I hated the feeling of applying the liquid with a dropper twice a day. It would drip down my scalp and forehead and I began to worry I would soon resemble Abe Vigoda – all eyebrows and no hair on top. 

Hi Abe!

After a few weeks with no visible improvement, I finally got a referral from my primary care physician to see a dermatologist named Dr. Dyson. Dr. Dyson was the most beautiful doctor I’ve ever seen. She had dark skin, black hair, and almond-shaped brown eyes. After meeting her, I no longer had to suspend my disbelief at shows like ER and Grey’s Anatomy. Doctors really could be that good-looking. (I found out later that my sister had been to see her for an unrelated issue. [Bree has always had thick, beautiful hair. Jerk.] The first thing we said upon this discovery was, “Isn’t she hot?”) This made it even more difficult to pull my hair back and reveal my dirty little secret, but Dr. Dyson also happened to possess a wonderful bedside manner. She diagnosed the problem as alopecia areata, an autoimmune disorder in which your immune system attack your body hair. “Damnit, immune system! I always knew you were up to no good,” I thought. She said the best course of treatment would be a series of injections of corticosteroids directly into the scalp. Oh joy, just what I’ve always wanted. I was willing to do almost anything to re-grow my follicles, so I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut as she plunged a syringe into my head a dozen times. When I got in my car to leave, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw little spots of blood on my scalp through my thinning hair. It’s a glamorous life.  

I went back to her for treatments every few weeks. After a month or so, I began to notice re-growth. The hair was thin, but it was there, and I felt so relieved. I called off my plans to visit a wig shop and carried on for several, blissful years without thinking too much about my tresses. That is until a few weeks ago when the tell-tale signs returned. Yes, my hair is abandoning ship once again, choosing instead to live in the sewers and landfills of NYC. I have resumed steroid treatments with a dermatologist here in New York, but I fear the solution will not be so simple this time.

I am almost certain my new hair loss is a side effect of the thyroid disease I’ve been struggling with for the past year. I knew early-on that hair loss was a common problem amongst thyroid patients, but I thought I was magically staying under the radar somehow as my hair seemed to be fine. (It was the only thing that was fine, really.) The ironic thing is that my thyroid levels are the best they’ve been in a year and I’ve been able to cut down my medication. I feel so much better these days, so I guess my hair took that as a cue to make its exit. This feels different than the last time around, and it’s not one particular spot that is balding, but a general thinning of my whole head of hair. This is why I am not sure steroids will help, but I haven’t given up hope yet.

Honestly, hair loss is something that the women of my family have struggled with for generations. As a kid, I looked at my Great Aunts and came to terms with the fact that I’d likely have very little hair by the time I reached my 70s. I felt okay with that, because I figured I could wear awesome turbans and have fun with wigs. You know, I’d be the wacky old broad whose hair went crooked when she had one too many whiskeys. But it’s been a little tougher to face this problem so early in life. I’ve had to step back and really think about the culture of beauty we live in. Society tells us that thick, full hair is important to the way people look (this is one issue of appearance where men seem to face just as much pressure as women). People spend so much of their hard-earned money on hair replacement surgery, shampoos that claim to re-grow hair, elixirs and potions and laser-massaging-machines that you strap to your head before going to sleep each night. As someone facing the reality of hair loss, I get it. No one wants to be the person blinding innocent bystanders as the sun bounces off their shiny, hairless skull. But I wish we could take the power back, that it wasn’t a mark of shame to have been dealt some shitty DNA. We didn’t do anything wrong! This is the way we were born!

This is the first result when you run a Google image search for "glamorous turban"

I have promised myself to do as much medically as I can to try and save my hair. But if those options do not work, and if I’m found to be otherwise healthy, then... fuck it. I'm prepared to bare my hairless soul to the world and not give a damn what anyone thinks. I may be donning a turban far in advance of my twilight years, but apparently they began making their comeback in 2010. Score!