The Importance of Hair

my hair, in thicker days

There has been a long-running discussion of the potentially damaging effects of depictions of extremely slender women in the media. Many feel that images of tiny models make girls and women uncomfortable with their bodies, potentially leading to low self-esteem and even eating disorders.

This is a cause of much outrage, and steps have been taken to combat the problem. But the media also bombards women with another kind of perfection. And though these images have the potential to be equally self-esteem damaging, this problem is not the topic of a lively debate. I’m talking about images of perfect hair. Long, flowing, glossy shampoo commercial hair. The Kardashian’s waist-length, loose curls. When you think about it, actually, pretty much every model, sitcom actress, and movie star has really nice hair, regardless of size or shape. Images of hair perfection in the media are rampant, and it’s driving me crazy.

I’ve been struggling with my hair for a while now. I had thick, smooth hair as a child, and then the texture suddenly changed when I was fourteen or fifteen and it became oddly wiry and cowlicky in places. And then, at the end of high school, I started to notice that that my scalp was showing around my crown. The next year, I noticed that the circumference of my ponytail was shrinking. But each time I noticed my hair thinning, I chalked it up to poor diet, lack of sleep, and stress, and I vowed to sort it out when my life style was less hectic.

The summer after I graduated from college I had all the time in the world to sleep. I was not under any stress, and I made a point of eating well and taking daily supplements. But my hair just kept getting thinner. My part was a mile wide, and I used baby hair fasteners to secure my tiny pony tail. I could no longer blame my thinning hair on external environmental factors. I had to admit I had a problem.

Hair had never been a huge focus for me in the past. I have cut my long hair into a chin-length bob with little thought and no regret. I cycle through bangs almost every year. I frequently allow non-trained, non-professional friends to cut my hair.  I am not the kind of girl who cries over a bad haircut. In fact, hair-criers always annoyed me supremely. Because it’s just hair, right?

But when I realized that I was really truly losing my hair, I became obsessed. I’m now constantly gauging the thickness of other’s hair when I’m out, staring longingly at particularly thick and lush tresses. I’m also constantly accusing people of using extensions (but only in my head (most of the time)). I know that it’s wrong and judgey, but it makes me feel better about myself, okay?

Not that hair loss is ANYWHERE near as severe an ordeal as the loss of a limb or similar disfiguring injury, but I really feel like I’ve gotten a taste of that particular brand of pain. Of feeling like you’ve suddenly lost your ability to be conventionally beautiful. Of feeling like you must now learn to be “you” in a whole new way.

Hoping that there was still a dim chance of getting my hair back, I visited my GP, who ordered two rounds of blood tests to check for things like thyroid problems, anemia, and major hormone imbalances. When all the tests came back normal, I concluded that I was suffering from genetic hair loss.

A trip to the dermatologist last Thursday confirmed my suspicions. And even though I was already pretty sure of what the final verdict would be, the doctor might as well have said “Never feeling good about yourself again” instead of “progressive genetic hair loss.”

The technical name for what’s going on is androgenetic alopecia. It means that my hair falls out due to its sensitivity to androgens. I was prescribed an oral androgen blocker but was told to not expect any re-growth.

As of last Thursday, I am officially a hair-crier. I mean seriously, everyone who was in Walgreens while I was waiting to pick up my prescription probably thinks I was just diagnosed with cancer.

I know it’s stupid to be that upset over hair, but in that moment, it was so much more than hair I was mourning. I was mourning my femininity, my youth, my identity. I was mourning my plan to one day be a grandmother with a chin-length snow white bob (well, I guess I can still wear a chin-length snow white wig). I was mourning my ability to someday attract a potential mate.

Because, as it turns out, hair is SO important. Damn it. It really is.