Without hair, I am nothing

As my part slowly widened, and the crown of my head began to emerge, my parents began to worry. Since male pattern baldness is not in our family history, they frantically searched for an explanation for their son's thinning hair.

While I wanted to practice the guitar or meet girls, my mom dragged me to doctor after doctor. We examined my diet to make sure I had enough protein and keratin; jello and meat quickly became staples in our house. My hair-grooming routines were next in the lineup; maybe my hair was breaking off from mistreatment. On this theory, I changed from one brush to another to a wide-tooth comb, looking for the most gentle treatment. Finally, to prevent breakage of the hairs, I just stopped combing it altogether, relying solely on my fingers.

I once read a survey that showed that most bald men would sacrifice five years of their life to have hair again. Before my own hair had started thinning, I would have wondered how anyone could be so superficial. It seems ludicrous that a cosmetic change could make such a difference. But it does.

As my hair went, so did my self-confidence. I didn't date at all for the majority of the next two years. I wasn't secure in myself as a person, and I felt so unattractive that I couldn't understand why anyone would be interested in me anyhow.

My freshman year at college was largely miserable, as other problems only compounded my crushing lack of self-esteem. Over the course of that year, there were only three people at my university who I considered friends. Two of them had thinning dark hair.

Home over winter break, I was finally referred to a dermatologist who specialized in hair problems. Fortunately, she lived in the city where my university was located. I would have traveled across the country to see her if she hadn't.

In the days before "Rogaine" and "Propecia" became household words, she knew of and prescribed me a hair loss treatment. My salvation came in the form of a once-daily pill and a twice-daily solution for my scalp, which would help to stop my hair loss and restore what had already been lost. The pill had to be carefully sliced into fourths with a razor blade, the solution irritated the hell out of my scalp and both cost an arm and a leg, but I never once resented it. Shortly thereafter, my hair began to thicken and regrow.

As my hair grew back, so did my confidence. I began dating once again, wearing my self-worth upon my head. Yet, I carried my shame with me, taking extreme precautions to conceal my treatments from everyone, even the roommate with whom I shared a single, closet-size cell. I would linger in the public bathroom that was shared by the entire floor, drawing out my tooth brushing until, in a moment of solitude, I could stealthily satisfy my need. More than once as I cut pills, the parallels between my behavior and that of a drug addict crossed my mind.

I don't know how many times I've thought that I should just give it up and let my hair go the way it was meant to. But every time I look in the mirror I know why I can't. I know that man is superficial by nature. We love to look good and are willing to trade years of our lives for it. Or, in my case, willing to undergo daily hassles and expenses to hang on to what I wasn't meant to have.

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