I’ve never been too vocal about alopecia. Those that know me know why I am bald, but I don’t often talk about it in a public forum. I guess the reason, really, is that I have never wanted it to define me, and I still don’t, but sometimes talking about it can be cathartic for me, and maybe someone else out there too. And this month, I’ve been told, is alopecia awareness month, so I figured this was as good a time as any to say a little something.
Alopecia is hair loss caused by an immune system mix-up. Simple as that. It’s not a sickness. It’s not caused by stress. It’s simply a function of the body that we have no control over. We’ve all got something, alopecia just happens to be more obvious because it’s on the outside. While it’s not life threatening, it can be life altering, especially for those who didn’t grow up bald.
My journey with it began as a little girl, but back then I only had little patches of missing hair here or there. I shaved my head when I was 26. I had watched a tiny patch of missing hair grow each day for weeks until eventually, it was so big that I couldn't hide it any longer. I went to see my hair stylist, this amazingly hip Brooklyn musician who had been with me through all the ups and downs. His advice was that now was the moment I got to "reinvent myself" and right then and there I decided I would shave it all off. In my mind, the universe had given me this crazy opportunity to, temporarily, experience life as a bald woman. I embraced it like I did any great adventure into the unknown. A few days later when I shaved my head I felt unbelievably empowered by my choice. But I had never imagined it wouldn’t grow back. And sometime over the next few months, it began to settle in that I was going to be a bald woman (rather than a woman who shaved her head, as I liked to tell the story) for a long time, maybe forever. Suddenly, I was giving birth to a new identity and it was scary and lonely and uncomfortable. Any way you shake it, hair is a huge part of how you look. And how you look has a huge impact on how you feel. Baldness is stark, striking, intense. I would put on a wig and look like my old self, feel like my old self. I would take off the wig and hardly recognize myself. I thought I was this badass woman and suddenly baldness made me feel shy, withdrawn and insecure. How would I contend with being so outwardly different? How would I grapple with the world's judgment? I hadn’t, in the slightest, expected the confusing emotional rollercoaster of it all. But in time it got better. And little by little I stopped relying on a wig as a safety blanket. I started just being bald. I gave up caring about who I was/how I looked before because, honestly, it just took up too much energy that I wanted to use elsewhere, for climbing and running and kicking ass at work. I moved on. I embraced my new identity. At times I love it, celebrate it, am a stronger person for it. And other times I am not. I think I both overestimate and underestimate my emotional strength. Maybe we all do. I guess people are complicated.
I reflected on this a lot this summer while traveling alone in Portugal. Being in a foreign place, especially alone, is, or so I used to think, the scariest time to be bald. But you know what I suddenly realized on that trip? No one cares. Ha! And to think of all the energy I wasted thinking they did. Back when I was just coming to terms with baldness I never could have imagined being so comfortable with being a bald woman as I did on that trip and as I do, mostly, today. I still wear my wig once in awhile and I love it when I do. It’s like wearing those gorgeous Jimmy Choo stilettos to a fancy party. They’re beautiful and it’s fun to feel transformed for a moment, to marvel at the way in which the world reacts differently to you. But a wig, like those heels, is only comfortable in small stretches, and it’s only one version of me.
This reflection was a reminder that we have many versions of ourselves and that the world doesn’t define us if we don’t let it. We don’t have to be bound to societies conventions. And letting them go can be deeply liberating. The greatest transformation is the one from being afraid to being free. Free from the pressure. Free in all your versions, whatever shape they may take. Likely, we will all give birth to new identities many times over during the course of our lives. Like, for example, motherhood. My hope for the future, for myself and all of us, is that we can be a little more patient with ourselves during these transformations and that we can remember that it’s okay if it’s not easy, if it’s painful. It's supposed to be. Pain allows us to push the boundaries of what’s possible, personally, physically. We’d get nowhere if we didn’t allow ourselves to experience it. Life is change. And, well, there’s something kind of beautiful about that.
Portrait by James Chororos
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