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Okay, let’s all knock on some wood here but it looks like, for the moment, Alopecia-gate may have gone away to majorly inconvenience some other fabulous former hair haver for a while.

Don’t let the door smack you in the back of the bald head on your way out, you dick.

For those who don’t know/haven’t noticed my occasional bouts of ‘fuck you Alopecia’ expression, this has been buggering up my barnet for the past year. It struck some time around January 2014 and has continued to be a pain in my ass ever since.

May I present to you, exhibit A. I call it; the Monk:

IMG_1700

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I know, FIT right? I mean, I can see Rihanna rocking this baby next season and everything.

To this day, I have no idea where that massive chunk of hair went. It was literally there one minute and gone the next (there’s a hair today, gone tomorrow pun in there somewhere but I’m not man enough to use it) To add insult to injury, I discovered it gone while AT WORK in a MEETING. Hashtag mortifying.

I should add here that this particular variation is ‘Alopecia Areata’ which means that you don’t lose ALL your hair, just enough to piss you off and withhold the fun of wig shopping.

Now, I am a person who loves her hair. I have (/had) a lot of it, the kind of hair that you can blast with a hair dryer and somehow it doesn’t need straightening or anything, it just is. I hadn’t realised how much this (along with a decent rack and fabulous shoes) was a part of me until it was suddenly gone.

I basically spent January 2014 in a pit of OH GOD I HATE PONY TAILS AND BUNS I LOOK LIKE A BOY WITH WEIRD STICKING OUT EARS GET THAT DONUT THING AWAY FROM ME WHAT DO YOU MEAN I HAVE TO DEAL WITH PEOPLE.

Then of course a lot of other emotional crap happened and the bun became the least of my problems, but I digress. Without my mane of hair, I was no longer me. I lost my confidence, drank WAY more usual (which is saying something frankly) in order to make up for said lack of confidence and avoided any photographic situation I wasn’t entirely in control of for fear of my vile updo taking over my Facebook feed. Honest to Lucifer, quite a lot of the time I’d have rather the whole lot had gone so I could have wigged up, then at least you know your hair’s going to look half decent. Call me shallow if you like, I’ll pop round some Veet and draw a circle on your head, see how you handle it.

Alongside the ‘looking hideous every day’ dilemma, there is the ‘feeling like you look hideous every day’ which is the back up even if you manage to pull of the voluminous bun look. On top of that, there’s panic that every time you get stressed (which like NEVER happens to me ever of course… ahem) then you’re going to go bald (-er), the cocktail of meds due to an absolute lack of knowledge of what causes it or what might trigger it to happen more, not to mention the fact that you’re not allowed to wash your hair more than twice a week lest the little bastards panic and head for the plug hole. And then on top of that, y’know, LIFE still has to happen.

photo 2After nearly a year of this, at last in November last year my daily examination of said BALD SPOTS revealed the tiniest trace of furry regrowth. Hurrah! I mean, there’s a significant amount of my hair that looks like this

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But it’s better than nothing. Even if it does grow directly upright like an absolute bastard of a cowlick.

But today, we celebrate, for today after a year (okay, maybe a year and a half… I was never the most frequent visitor to the hair salon) I finally sucked it up and went, to sort out the epic bird nest of split-endy madness I’ve been hiding in a top knot for 12 months.

Et voila —->photo 4

Not too fecking shabby if I say so myself.

Now if all the follicles could just calm the fuck down and take a xanax next time things get a tad stressful instead of jumping ship, that would be just lovely.

*knock knock knock* (do it with me, make sure it’s real wood)

And on that note, I’m off to purchase some GHDs.

Rx

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