As a woman, hair loss is one medical condition you never expect to face. But it happened to me
By Kylie Carberry
Joke: How do you spot a bald eagle?
Answer: Its feathers are combed to one side.
Yes, we all love a good bald joke. And women can snigger a little more smugly than men when we hear one, knowing our gender affords us the likelihood of never losing our hair. Or so I thought.
But in August last year, when my hairdresser discovered a bald spot the size of a 20-cent piece on one side of my head, as well as some thinning on the other, all of that bald humour suddenly seemed as appealing as mouldy leftovers.
All my life I'd enjoyed compliments about my long, blonde, silky hair. At various stages in adulthood, when my friends all decided to go in for "the big chop", I refused to take part. I liked my long hair and the thought of losing even part of it was devastating.
On the drive home, I couldn't stop my fingers being repeatedly drawn to the errant spot – it seemed to act like a beacon, boldly announcing its presence through my otherwise lush locks. Taking peeks at myself in the rear-view mirror, I tried hard to thwart visions of a hairless me. But to no avail.
I phoned my friend Rowena the minute I walked in the door, expecting her to be as shocked and horrified as I was. Instead, she reckoned I'd look "cool" bald. Hello? Hadn't she noticed my bigger-than-average-sized head? With only small shoulders, couldn't she see that I'd resemble a Chupa Chup?
Later, when my husband arrived home from work and I showed him my bald spots, he was upbeat as well. Wait until you talk to the doctor before jumping to your usual pessimistic conclusions, he urged.
But a dermatologist's appointment a week later only confirmed my fears.
He took one look at my head and announced he'd need to perform a scalp biopsy. This was getting serious.
After the procedure (which hurt like hell), he told me to sit tight for the results. And, in the meantime, try not to get the stitches in your head wet, he said. Yeah, right.
A week later I was back at the surgery awaiting the verdict on my now uber-greasy crowning glory.
"It's not too bad," he said. "Not good either, though."
Apparently, I had a tricky-to-treat condition called lichen planopilaris, a type of scarring alopecia. Here's the lowdown: alopecia is when your hair falls out; scarring alopecia is when your hair falls out and your scalp scars over, preventing the possibility of hair growing back – ever. Not exactly the news I was hoping for.
I could try halting the hair loss with powerful but potentially hazardous oral corticosteroids, he said, but there were no guarantees they'd work. He handed over a prescription and a leaflet with a list of potential side effects.
"What do you think will happen in my case?" I asked.
And my fate was signed, sealed and delivered with an apathetic shrug of his shoulders.
Back home, I couldn't concentrate on anything but my damn hair. While initially I felt relief that my condition now had a name, it soon morphed into disquiet and dread. I couldn't help but wonder bitterly what I'd done to deserve such a thing. But, according to the medical websites I scoured, there is no definitive cause. Some experts believe it's caused by the immune system erroneously attacking healthy hair follicles. Others believe it can be the result of an adverse drug reaction, exposure to certain chemicals, or an emotionally stressful event.
That night when I told my husband the news, I began to cry. Looking at his own thick mop of hair only made it worse. I envisaged how odd we'd look at 80 with me bald and him hirsute. My children, disturbed at seeing their mother so upset, did their best to console me. "Don't worry, Mummy," my seven-year-old son said. "I'll ask my teacher if you can borrow his wig."
Oh yes, I thought joyously, knowing full well it was the pink fluoro number he had donned at the recent school disco. My teenage daughter, with her thick mop of dark curls falling around her curious eyes, queried whether it was hereditary, while my two-year-old simply asked, "Where my tea?"
Over the coming weeks, I tried to keep my chin up. But as I began to notice more spots where my hair was sparse, I became very glum. No matter how much my dear hubby stressed he'd love me just as much if I were follicly challenged, it made no difference. It's tough for a woman to imagine being bald, as baring your scalp just isn't a pretty thought. As much as we whine about cutting it all off because of bad-hair days, I doubt most of us would ever voluntarily give up the need to shampoo.
Ironically, male pattern baldness runs in my family: my poor little brother went bald in his early 20s. While it was comforting to talk to him about it all, it was also a bit weird. After all, siblings of the opposite sex aren't supposed to share something like this.
As the weeks wore on, the sparse spots on my head grew. I found hair in the shower, on my pillow, and on the floor. By the end of the month, my bald patch had expanded and where there had previously been no bald patch on the other side of my head, one now appeared.
In desperation I began researching the medication I'd been prescribed. What I found was horrifying. I could be subjecting myself to weight gain (pretty much a sure thing), insomnia, nausea, unexplained euphoria and depression – and that was just the beginning. What a choice: I could take up residence in Baldsville or move down the street to where the fat, sleepless, sick guys lived. Oh, and they are all out of their minds to boot.
After much deliberation, I decided against the oral medication and instead visited a homeopath.
Making the appointment was cathartic in itself, despite running my fingers through my hair the whole time I was on the phone and then finding a fistful of hair when I hung up.
The homeopath agreed the problem lay with my flagging immune system and gave me a foul-tasting herbal mixture to help repair it. She also recommended regular remedial massage. I embarked on the treatment programme, eagerly awaiting the results.
I also found solace in speaking online to other baldies. I was surprised to learn that women's hair loss, from an assortment of causes, is quite common. My own hair loss is actually pretty tame compared to some. One online counterpart has had alopecia areata for many years and her hair loss waxes and wanes. It is enough, however, that people continually ask her if she has a serious illness. Now she's thinking it might be easier to get a wig.
Well, it's been four months now since the discovery of that first bald spot. Unfortunately, the hair loss seems to be advancing from the side of my head to the front, where it is more difficult to cover. Every time I put my hair in a ponytail I have to ensure a pile of bobby pins are at hand to hide bare patches at the side of my head. But I am grateful I can still hide my condition.
And I guess I should be thankful, really. In the scheme of health conditions, hair loss isn't up there with a plethora of insidious others – cancer, Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, multiple sclerosis – to name just a few. It isn't physically debilitating and it isn't life-threatening.
If it does worsen, I've promised myself I won't become a hermit. I've already trawled the net for trendy hats, scarves and hair wefts (little pieces of hair which you can clip into your hair to add volume). While I probably won't get any offers to model in the next issue of Hair magazine, if by chance I do, I'll simply wear a wig. And there's good news there: I needn't look any further than my son's classroom for that.
Kylie Carberry, 37, lives in Shellharbour, NSW, with her husband Graeme and children Kirrily, 18, Aidan, 9, Rhys, 7, and Poppy, 2. She loves reading, watching films and spending time with her family.
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