Part 8: Wigging Out

August 25, 2023

Four short days later, I got the call....

"Alopecia Areata", the dermatologist decreed.

Okay. As expected. 

"Temporary, unless something changes," they hedged. 

Not exactly helpful, but thank you.

"See you in two weeks for more of those shots you love," they chirped.

Excellent, can’t wait.

While this information wasn't necessarily a surprise, the official medical diagnosis made me restless.  Once again, I was deemed a ‘medical miracle’, experiencing a major health crisis that doctors could not explain.  Lucky me. 

*3 months into hair loss ^

I craved answers, and fell down the google rabbit hole again.  "No one really knows why this is happening to you,” it echoed back. One thing was clear though: I was now three months into my hair loss and it was not slowing down. My lifestyle changes and supplement regime, while remarkable for my skin, proved futile for my follicles. 

Hiding the hair loss was impossible now, so public spaces now meant wearing hats, but I rarely left the house anymore anyway. Not exactly fun times, for a girl that works from home to be home all evening as well. And ugh those weekends....

Playing Hooky for Hair

After a particularly soul-crushing day at work, frustration with my situation boiled over and defiance sparked. “I am not letting this happen!” I cried out. Laptop slamming shut, I rebelled against my self-imposed confinement and played hooky that afternoon.

The local wig store, once a beacon of one-off snarky remarks as we drove past, beckoned. Never, in all those drive-bys, did I imagine actually walking in myself one day, but yet here I was in the parking lot, battling against my inner voices for the courage to enter.  Heart racing, hands sweating, and mind swirling, I took a deep breath, acknowledged my likely hairless future, and opened the car door, venturing in.

Holy Heads of Hair!

Hundreds of faceless mannequins stared back at me as I walked in, equally terrifying yet hopeful, beckoning with their siren song of nights out on the town again. Blonde, brunette, auburn, black, gray, purple, long, short, curly, straight - the dizzying kaleidoscope of options overwhelmed me, sending me retreating towards the door for a quick escape.  But a beautiful older woman in a gorgeous wig herself, sensing a nice commission about to flee, intercepted my flight.  She listened to my story and got to work like the magician she was, plucking wigs from the racks for me to try on like silk scarves out of a hat. 

*Just one room in the wig store!

And then it happened. She placed that first, magical, glorious head of (not my own) hair on my head and changed everything, offering a glimpse of what could be. Straightening in the chair, I met my reflection. A small smile started to bloom. This miraculous contraption she called a "topper" blended in seamlessly with the hair I still had, reigniting something in me that I hadn’t felt in a few months. I WAS STILL CUTE! Credit card whipping out faster than you can say “reward points”, I bought it and fled the store, clutching hope tighter than a bride's up-do on her wedding day.

Well friends, shockingly, I'm still writing. Keep reading for more adventures in hair, hope, and finding myself, one strand at a time.

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PS.  Just curious what you all think. Should I keep going? Let me know in the comments below.

(Ummmm....did you end up on this page and find yourself unexpectedly in the middle of my story? Click here to start it from the top.)