My Thinning Hair Taught Me Not to Give a F*uck!

Hair today, gone tomorrow.

A writer shares with Shondaland how she learned to accept the hairs she did have and not focus on those that were clogging the drain.

I’m getting older—and so is my hair. It’s thinning and molting. I fear that I may be losing the battle to menopausal hormones. Sorry, hair follicles. The thing is, shedding is supposed to make way for regrowth—like with snakes. But in many areas of my head, that just ain’t the case. I’ve got tiny, shiny bald patches. I’m just molting. 

However, in an effort to stay in the fight, I’ve lathered and slathered organic shampoos and plant-based conditioners. I ingest vitamins, herbal supplements, and protein powders. I’ve tried scalp masks, leave-in oils, and rinse-out creams. I avoid hairbands, headbands, and hats—except when I’m at the beach because, well, melanoma. Last August, I went so far as buying a laser cap with a seven-hundred-dollar price tag that promised to revitalize weak hair follicles—the carrying case was extra, and another forty-five dollars. 

I don’t fry my strands by blow drying or flat ironing. And I no longer braid, pull, or clip—mostly. Depending on my workout schedule, I alternate between shampooing and conditioning and only rinsing my hair with water. Overwashing can be damaging, but so can not washing enough. I’ve got whiplash from the mixed messages. I massage my scalp to promote blood circulation. I haven’t combed my hair in—geez, I can’t remember the last time. Instead, I finger-comb in the shower. The less I bother and leave my hair undisturbed, the better chance of its survival. 

This parade of strategies, products, and gadgets is my protest march against the injustices of malevolent biology and Mother Nature. 

I have friends who are in the same boat. They’re like hair loss vigilantes committed to finding the Holy Grail of hair growth. Texts go back and forth. “Did you read this? Have you tried that? Those Swedish hair experts swear by baby urine shower caps.” 

I’m exhausted.  

After seven months of using the laser cap, I saw less thinning along the hairline in front, but those pesky bald spots showed no sign of regrowth. I had to accept that it was Mother Nature’s kingdom. If I have any chance of dethroning her, I must use medication like Minoxidil. 

However, I’d have to use it until my last breath. If not, any gains I make will be lost, and shedding will again commence. There are also potential side effects, and it’s not even a hundred percent effective. I want to feel the wind in my hair and relive the days when I looked like the guitarist from the 80s hair band Vixen. But at what cost? 

My hair has always been a big part of my identity. Friends, family, and strangers have often commented on the healthy amount of thick, wavy locks. Yes, I was blessed. Some days it was like Gilda Radner’s character Roseanne Roseannadanna. Other times like Sarah Jessica Parker and Jennifer Grey (her Dirty Dancing days). It was commendable hair. Which explains the trauma I feel losing it. 

Hell, when I was younger, I’d bemoan having too much hair. It was often unruly, frizzy, or it grew too fast—I was constantly getting haircuts. Can you imagine? I’d like to take my younger self by the throat and implore her to appreciate the volume because, “One day, you’ll have male pattern baldness, and your hair’s texture will be dry and stiff like the Scarecrow’s ass. You’ll have enough strands on your kitchen floor to weave a basket.” 

Experimenting with different hairstyles and hair colors was a way to express myself; pigtails, shag, pixie, mullet, ill-conceived bangs, layers, and whatever you call the hairstyle my mom gave me in third grade because she was trying to save a buck. I changed my hair color as often as my underwear. 

Hair played such an essential role in my life that I made a short film about it in film school called, All About Hair. No ambiguity there. It was about two hairdressers, a man, and a woman, each with long gorgeous tresses, who competed for Best Hair Stylist in their salon. They ended up falling in love and getting married. As a plot twist, they show up under the Chuppah with shaved heads. It wasn’t about hair at all—it was about true love. 

The first time I saw my white scalp, I went into shock. It was like looking at some other person’s head. What is that? What’s happening? That can’t be me. I decided it was more than reasonable and okay to detest what was happening on my head. I never entertained the possibility of thinning hair or hair loss. Why would I? I shook my fists at the sky, screaming, “Why? Why do you hate me?” 

It was a PuPu platter of loss, which included my youth. I could no longer play the ingenue in the movies I cast in my fantasies. Will it affect my winning personality? Do I take time to grieve? Will I feel feminine without my thick, silky mane? Crap. Were hair plugs in my future? My dad had plugs in 1979. Oh, my gosh, I was becoming my father. 

Appearances have currency in our culture, exacerbated by social media, which often promote unhelpful and self-esteem-crushing information and images. Putting stock in one’s outward appearance is a dangerous business. And it’s shallow. In the inimitable words of The Captain n’ Tenille, “Young and beautiful, but someday your looks will be gone.” And then what? 

The nonsensical standards suggesting that older hair is unattractive and should be pushed aside—along with the person attached to it, makes my blood boil. I give it all the finger. 

Once I got over the initial shock, I changed my thinking—or I tried to anyway. I didn’t want to be superficial—it’s not who I am. My currency is in my head, not on top of my head. It wasn’t easy—but it was necessary if I was going to move forward. Obsessing over something I clearly had no power over was silly and a time suck. 

Thankfully, the demise of my lush head of waves and bounce has been slow. It gives me time to accept and adjust to what’s around the corner. 

Like others, my hair loss worsened during the pandemic—the incessant doom and gloom hadn’t done my hair health any favors. I gave up on personal upkeep—too busy worrying and staying alive. And then I got Covid. Instantly, my attention shifted from the condition of my lid to the fragility of my life. 

After all that humanity (and I) had endured, the pandemic brought a sobering perspective. It’s only hair. I’m not saying thinning and bald patches are pleasant—they’re not. But my only concern then, as it is now, is my health. 

I also asked myself how much of my self-esteem was tied to my hair. Hint. Too much. I see that now. I’m the same person, with or without my luxurious mop of yore. My hair is not the full breadth of who I am—not by a long shot, and I will not let it define me. 

Acceptance is a process, and I’m not always successful—this, too, is okay. Sometimes, I’ll bookmark articles about the latest must-have-you’re an idiot if you don’t have it-product. Or, like an archeologist, I’ll explore and dig around my hairlines with the magnifying mirror. I’m only human. In weaker moments, I’ll ask my friend to look at my scalp and tell me what she sees. If she’s a true friend, she’ll lie to my face—which now has more hair on it than on my head. 

And then I remember what my mom said when I brought up my scalp misfortune. “Stop looking.” Pithy. Meaningful. A little delusion and even less lighting go a long way. 

I let my hair do what it’s going to do (or not do). I release unrealistic expectations and what I can’t control. When I see my part getting more expansive, I simply create a new one, as parts are a moving target. It’s a game of smoke and mirrors, and I’m getting pretty good at playing. I get creative, focus on what I still have, and make the most of it for as long as possible.

My new mindset is true freedom. Gratitude, baby—it’s all the rage. 

When, and if, the hair strands that are currently rooted on my head seek greener pastures one day, on the bathroom floor, circling the shower drain, or on the floormats in my car, I’ll thank them for sticking around as long as they did, and I will carry on. I will carry on right down to Wigs and Plus. The plus does sound promising.