All I want for Christmas is…..

Hair.

I have recently been diagnosed with alopecia.

I am coming to terms with this as I come to terms with most things; by oversharing it with random people in an effort to work out how I actually feel about it.

And I can tell you that I feel worse about it than I thought I would.

I mean the good news is that it’s not going to kill me (although clearly my already dicky immune system attacking my hair follicles is not IDEAL).

This last two years we’ve had a proper reality check about what really matters, and how precious and precarious our health is. So in the grand scheme of things it’s all fine, right? But still… it’s not fine. I’m not fine.

(Apart from the hair there is left. That’s VERY fine. And thinning. And not going to last for very much longer).

Quite how bad I feel about it has come as a shock to me as I didn’t think I was a terribly image-conscious sort of person – as anyone who has seen me on a school run can certainly attest.

But the thing is, my hair HAS been part of my self image. Playing with it, flicking it, has always been part of how I’ve dealt with nerves. Part of how I’ve flirted. Part of how I’ve felt sensual. Part of me. I’ve think I’ve always known deep down that while I’m not traditionally pretty, I can scrub up okay with a bit of effort, and that I can be attractive when I’m animated – which usually involves waving my hands around a lot as I talk… and running them through my hair.

In general terms I think I’ve been sort of lucky that I’ve had this weird, spidery inner thread of self-acceptance, if not necessarily full blown self-confidence – because so many people really struggle with body image and it does SO much damage.

But I’ve also been sort of UNlucky because the reason I don’t have lots and lots of body hang-ups is that I’ve been obsessed with just ONE big one my entire life. And in comparison all my other imperfections have just seemed… peripheral.

This issue has had a HUGE impact on me, on what I do, how I feel, and where I go. It has shaped my decisions about jobs and relationships, my choices of hobby and my breadth of ambition. It has driven my anxiety, and at its worst, even bouts of depression.

I’ve always been vaguely plump around the edges, and this has been fine.

I’ve always had massive glasses, terrible posture and what I like to think of as an EXTREME nose – but this has been fine too.

I’m even fine (ish) more recently with my saggy tummy and boobs, and my wrinkles. Even when the Big Small plays my forehead lines like a guitar.

I can dress my curves.

I can style out the nose and wrinkles with big hair and a smoky eye.

I can put on a decent bra and some MAHOOSIVE hold-it-all-in pants.

What I CANNOT do is hide my acne.

Especially when it is at the stage of massive, angry, painful boils that are openly weeping on my face – the bit of me that people look at the most and which doesn’t actually cover up.

(Mask wearing briefly played into my hands, but also made the spots situation even worse – as does make-up).

I have been locked in a battle with my skin since the age of about 11.

And I know I am not entirely rational about it. But it’s my THING and rationality is not going to suddenly appear after 31 years.

Unfortunately I also know – to my very real frustration – that it has been worse than ever over 40, which just seems terribly UNFAIR. Acned teens are supposed to grow out of it at some point, right? Not just continue on indefinitely! (There was a bit of a reprieve around pregnancies and breast-feeding).

On reflection, perhaps the most important role my hair has played in my life has been in helping me hide my face when I cannot bear for people to look at it.

And that has been A LOT of my life.

My hair has always been something to hide behind.

And now it’s not going to be there.

The good news is that the same dermatologist dealing with my scalp is also dealing with my acne – the first time I’ve ever seen a specialist. (Which is crazy. Please insist on referrals, people).

I am now at the wonderful stage of treatment where I essentially get to pick 2 out of 3 options:

I can be a size 10-12

I can have clear skin

I can hang onto some hair.

And… I choose bald.

Which I suppose is empowering?

The next hair treatment option for me is strong steroids, and I’m not going to take them because my middle-aged spread does not need any assistance, thank you very much. I basically feel like I’m more likely to be able to face bald at a size I’m vaguely comfortable and familiar with – and a body that feels like my own.

The next acne option is Isotretinoin – a relatively controversial drug with pretty horrible side-effects but that does, mostly, work. And I think I AM going to take this one – despite the trauma of googling others’ experiences. (I’m currently on enormous doses of antibiotics which can’t carry on indefinitely, and are becoming less effective over time).

Because if I can wake up on a morning where the first thing I think about ISN’T how bad my skin is, if I’m going to be able to cover it up, if I’m going to have to cancel plans or make excuses, if I can pretend my Zoom camera is broken, if the kids are going to comment on it and how much that will hurt – if anyone can love me when I’m so hideous – then – THEN I can do anything.

Including being bald or partially bald. (Which is somehow even more grotesque. Just google frontal fibrosing alopecia images).

So, seeing as I’m NOT going to get hair for Christmas, what I’d really like is some advice.

Has anyone ever taken Isotretinoin? Are there any NON-horror stories out there? Any advice on how to deal with the side effects?

And has anyone ever experienced hair loss? Is spending thousands of pounds on an expensive weave actually worth it? Where do you go? What brand of wigs do you buy – what are my options? Do you shave the rest off? Top scarf tips?

I’d love to hear from you.

Middle age is FUN, isn’t it?

(PS. Oh, and if you actually know me I’m relying on you to tell me when the thinning gets to the point I really need to take action. Ta).

(PPS. I did consider sacrificing a Barbie’s hair for a photo but decided the Smalls would never forgive me).

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