I stare at the piece of hair. I’ve seen so many pieces of my hair detached from my head over the years. Curly, dyed strands wrapped around stubborn hair elastics and plastic nubbed brush bristles. But now, I gaze at the long, dark wet strand plastered to my tiled shower wall. It feels complete in a way I don’t remember them looking historically. Wrong, it feels wrong. The other strands felt like collateral damage-evidence of pulling and tugging and wrangling. This strand feels like an innocent bystander-something akin to collateral damage.
Furiously scrubbing my limbs, I obsess over this piece of epidermis marring the otherwise white space. It’s goading me. Something is wrong, it whispers into the vanilla scented steam. Something is wrong, I whisper to myself.
Neva told me yesterday that I’d look good bald. Why do you think that? I asked. You have a nice round head, she replied. This made me laugh, of course, but curiously stirred further anxiety. Could I be bald?
I’m not sure I can think of women, outside of provoked by illness, who have made that choice. Several actresses have, for roles, but most of them are stunning and after, were praised for their dedication to craft. What would I be praised for- a devotion to auto-immune disorders triggered by unrelenting stress? I’m not sure that’s a thing.
It’s not. I’m actually sure of that.
Balancing on my right leg, I lift my left foot off the tub floor to soap between my toes. It occurs to me that there are people who don’t clean their feet and this makes me feel sorry for myself again. Shouldn’t a dedication to personal hygiene protect against certain aesthetic massacre? Isn’t that a deal that can be fashioned with some being in the clouds?
Not that I think filthy footed humans should be the only ones with receding hair lines, but my desperation is causing a nonsensical spiral in my brain that defies logic.
It could be hormones, I think, as I swipe body scrub onto my tender upper arms. These are the things that they don’t really talk about, even now when perimenopause has become something of a speaking point. Influencers touch on mood swings and weight gain, mostly. There are some sprinkled mentions of brain fog. Those are the sexy bits, I suppose, and by sexy, I mean marketable. Those are the parts of life changes that can be treated with supplements and diets and therapy. Those are the issues that are rectified with dietary changes and Spanx and more positive self-talk.
Sure, there are Nutrafol and hair oil advertisements galore, but they seem to revolve around the notion that those craving more luscious locks should gravitate in that direction. Volume! Shine! HEALTHY HAIR!
When I’m not feeling so despondent, this makes me giggle. Hair is dead, so what of its health? And yet, I understand. More now than ever. Bounce. Radiance. A lack of noticeable frizz.
Anyway, I haven’t yet come across a hair treatment commercial that speaks to women who relentlessly push cuticle ridden fingernails against a diminishing group of hairs just above a shiny forehead, wondering if today looks worse than yesterday. That feels like something that hasn’t been tackled yet. It’s still a faux pas. Experience it, but don’t talk about it.
I don’t want to minimize how difficult hair loss is for any and every sex, but I can only speak to the horror that is my journey.
Ironically, if you were to glance at me, you might not notice such things. My hair is wild and seemingly full, untamed locks flying in all directions at all times. This is the challenge, of course. When I speak of my “situation” it’s confusing. I’m told that I’m being ridiculous, overreacting. And yet, I know. I see.
And I will tell the small circle of confidants that there are worse things in life and I will believe that and also, another belief will swirl around my insides, plaguing me. Perspective will be something that I maintain, while also nursing a heavy dose of fear.
I lean forward, vision blurred from careless facial soap application, and peer closer at the strand. I follow it from what I imagine to be the place in which it affixed to my scalp to the end, tracing its whirling path across multiple subway tiles. Irrationally, I have a desire to place it back where it belongs, to pretend. I will hold it there until it re-attaches, finding its rightful place somewhere around the crown of my head. I think this is where it originated from. The sparser follicles in that area that are evident in bright lighting cast by my bathroom vanity seem to support this assumption, anyway.
Whatever it is, you will handle, I quietly say to myself. A little louder for those in the back, I think, giggling at my idiocy. I will deal with whatever this is- this thing challenging my hair line. Whatever deficiency, hormonal bullshit or auto-immune plague is threatening my sanity at this moment. I know that whatever it is pales in comparison to real illness, real problems, real challenges. And still, I allow myself a moment, cocooned in the mostly silent heat of my shower.
I imagine the rest of the world waiting with bared teeth and clawed hands just outside my chic, mostly see-through shower curtain. As if reacting to this sentiment viscerally, I press my warm flesh against the cool tiles, counting the touch points.
Shoulder, upper arm, hip.
Often, I remark that these are the things that should be talked about more- these icky, unpleasant sort of things. They should be spoken about in a way that doesn’t make everyone want to tell you that they’re sorry, and also, you’re crazy. We should be able to say the thing, like when you tell someone that you’re deeply sorry no one has remarked before now, but they do actually have a poppy seed caught in space near their upper incisor, likely from breakfast. And you know it’s after lunch and you understand they’ve seen quiet a few humans since then, but that is not within your control. Only this gentle nudge is- this suggestion to retreat to a private place with a mirror and a piece of floss.
Acknowledgement. Validation. Appreciation of the stress of a thing that’s not really a big deal, but certainly a bit uncomfortable for humans.
I will survive, hair or no hair. There are MANY worse things in life. But, in this moment, alone in my shower, I’m allowed to think that there aren’t, many.
I’m allowed to just be glum.
For a moment.
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