I lost my hair. Then I found myself.

It was 4 a.m., and I stood in the bathroom, fixated on my hairline. Looking closely, I could see the line of lace where my wig started. I wasn't going to fool anybody. I placed the wig on the Styrofoam mannequin head sitting on the counter. I stared at it for several minutes, contemplating how to fix this dilemma. For more than a year, I had been dealing with my progressive hair loss and clamoring for some sort of control.

Then it struck me: bangs! Bangs are always a decision made in hours of despair. I started to cut them straight across, just like when I was 6 years old and ruined my favorite Barbie doll playing hair salon. Except this was a $650 wig. I stopped when I realized I was one more cut from making this wig unredeemable. I looked in the mirror at my hair, thinning on top, the way it hung sadly, my scalp peeking through.

I thought, "I'm turning 40, I'm balding, and I don't know if I'll ever feel myself again." I didn't know what to do. I really thought of shaving it. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I took the scissors to my hair and chopped off four inches.

At that moment, I imagined my best friend yelling, "Stop! Put the scissors down and step away!"

I put the scissors down and surveyed the aftermath, envisioning a future where this would be a funny story — the night I channeled my inner Sara-Scissor hands, turning the sink into a hair salon massacre. Though I usually found humor in everything, I struggled to find the funny that night. I was too consumed with how to adapt to my altered reflection in the mirror.

My hair had been a source of pride. I diligently maintained my slow-growing long brown locks and rarely experimented since a disastrous pixie cut at 17. Until that night, when I didn't have much to lose.

I tried everything

It was the summer of 2020 when my hair started to fall out. Stepping out of the shower one day, I noticed more scalp than ever showing beneath my slicked-back hair, and clumps came out as I combed it.

I went on to try everything I could think of — meditation, Rogaine, new shampoos, supplements — hoping it would bounce back. The pandemic-induced shutdown in Los Angeles meant little socializing, allowing me to hide away.

By May 2021, with the world cautiously reopening, I decided on extensions, as I was finally seeing some regrowth. With more confidence, I re-entered the world with everyone else that summer.

A few months later, blow-drying before meeting a friend, I realized my hair had thinned to the point I could see the stark line of my extensions. Desperate, I reached for brown powder to conceal the thinning, inadvertently staining everything around me.

I texted my friend a photo and a confession, "I just don't feel comfortable leaving the house."

The next six months were a roller coaster. I tried Rogaine again, and my hair grew back — then fell out again. I took $70 supplements, but only my nails grew. I tried consulting a dermatologist and didn't get conclusive answers.

Losing 75% of my hair felt significant, though not immediately apparent to strangers. I battled with feelings of vanity and self-judgment for letting it affect me so deeply, especially when I got comments like "It's not that bad." So I stopped discussing it with most people.

I was diagnosed with androgenic alopecia

I decided to see a specialist. Through my insurance, I found a dermatologist with expertise in hair loss. The clinic held an air of calm, with plush white chairs, velvet pink ottomans, and complimentary LaCroix. I waited patiently, exhaling with some hope. The door swung open, and a woman in her 40s with caramel-colored curly hair falling below her shoulder waved me into her exam room.

I launched into the story of my hair loss journey, attempting to convey the stress and uncertainty that had defined the past year. Before I could finish, she was parting my hair and tugging on strands.

She then pulled up a chair and said, with sympathetic frankness, "You have androgenic alopecia. I could run more tests, but the hair loss pattern is textbook. Here's the good news — your follicles look good. It's progressive, but there are options effective in slowing it down."

My heart raced as she spoke, the unexpected permanence of the diagnosis sinking in. For me, hair has always meant more than just the strands on the top of my head. It symbolized youth, health, strength, and femininity. Society taught me that. It also taught me that hair loss is the physical manifestation of fertility decline. It is socially acceptable for men to go bald, but it's not normalized for women. Even though androgenic alopecia affects 25% of women by age 50, I hadn't heard of it until it happened to me.

The air seemed to thicken, and I walked out of the clinic with pamphlets and a numb feeling spreading through me. Options included medication with several side effects, a lifetime commitment to Rogaine, and costly platelet-rich plasma injections (PRP) — a six-month regimen that could help regrow some hair, and required maintenance injections for life. But nothing was going to bring all my hair back.

Unable to immediately afford PRP, already allocating thousands to Botox and fillers, I faced an LA-style Sophie's Choice: prioritize hair or combat wrinkles? Buy a house or maintain a youthful image? Society isn't kind to women who age naturally, and we definitely aren't supposed to go bald.

I bought myself multiple expensive wigs

Extensions became futile as my hair thinned on top, so I had them removed. Realizing a wig was my only option, I sought solace in the belief that I could find one that looked just like my real hair. Wearing wigs the rest of my life couldn't be that bad. Influenced by Kim Kardashian and Instagram influencers' seemingly effortless wig transformations, I was fueled with naive hope.

On my 40th birthday, I walked into the Wig Shop on Melrose Avenue with my best friend Emilie. I explored various styles, leaning toward those mirroring my natural hair. Emilie, ever-changing in hairstyles, tried out a short black curly wig, exclaiming, "This is now my thing."

I laughed and felt hopeful — wig shopping was fun. I purchased a long brown human hair wig that initially looked natural in the shop lighting. Three days later, reality set in. It didn't blend with my hairline or stay in place. I learned I had a lot to learn; there was a whole "wearing hair" subculture with special lingo that I knew nothing about. I spent hours daily researching, searching for the right hairpiece.

As the weeks went on, the confusion went from frustration to anger. That meant screaming into a pillow, followed by tears and cutting bangs on my wig. After the night of the bang cutting, I crawled into bed, leaving hair shavings on the floor. Sleep eluded me until I could find a different wig. Hours later, discovering an influencer on Instagram showcasing a natural-looking wig, I took the plunge, spending another $750.

I finally succumbed to sleep at 6 a.m., clinging to a glimmer of hope.

A week later, the new wig arrived, unbelievably poofy and large for my head. Hiding under covers, canceling plans, I spiraled. I thought of all the challenges I'd have to navigate while wearing wigs — beaches, windy days, convertibles, motorcycles, pools, ponytails, scorching LA heat, workouts, hikes, and, of course, sex.

After a few days, I got up, desperate to figure it all out. I sought a salon to salvage my wig. While the bangs resolved the hairline issue, I didn't feel like myself, and the cap was uncomfortable. After extensive research and a consultation with a wig company, I took a substantial leap, investing another $1250 in a new wig. I wore my wig with DIY bangs while I waited for the new one.

I decided I had had enough

One night, after isolating for a few weeks, I accepted an invitation to a friend's gathering. I knew I had to start getting used to this "new me." Upon arrival, I saw a mix of familiar faces. Only a handful of people knew about my ongoing hair loss saga. I had no desire to field questions about my new hairdo. The vibe was casual, with everyone chilling in the living room. I felt nearly normal, almost forgetting that I had a wig on.

As the night wore on in the warm room filled with people, the wig began to itch. Leaning against a friend on the couch, I couldn't ignore the rising heat and the beads of sweat on my forehead.

I suddenly decided I'd had enough. I removed the wig with a theatrical flair, draping it over my friend's lampshade. I remarked, "Don't let me forget this!"

Laughter erupted, and I found myself in a fit that lasted until my sides ached. Once I managed to catch my breath, I told them how I impulsively gave my wig bangs, prompting another round of uncontrollable laughter. Leaning back, I exhaled. Months later, my friend still jokes, "You know it's a good time when Sara's hair comes off."

At that moment, I realized that finding humor in myself was more liberating than any wig could be. The burden lightened when I realized my response to life's changes defines me more than my physical appearance.

When my new wig arrived, I was happy to see that the $1250 was worth it; however, its natural appearance mattered less than before. I didn't have the courage yet to go wigless. But by embracing hair loss with a touch of Moira Rose flair and treating different wigs as accessories, I could look different but still feel authentically myself.

I found my change within

During that first wig consultation over Zoom, the woman from the wig company had answered without a wig. She had no hair and was stunning. She had suffered from the type of alopecia which causes complete hair loss since her teens. I asked why she had stopped wearing wigs, and she said that it took a long time, but eventually, she became more comfortable showing up completely herself. I hoped to be that confident someday. That kind of vulnerability gives others strength.

Over a year later, it had gotten much easier, but not without moments of frustration. One day, I received an unsolicited iPhoto memory from seven years ago. In the photo, I was mid-laugh, my natural long and lustrous hair tossed over my left shoulder. I went down a sad, nostalgic rabbit hole looking over old photos, wishing I'd appreciated what I'd had while I'd had it. I used to always compare my hair to others'. It wasn't thick enough and didn't grow fast enough. Now, if I had my old hair back, I wouldn't change a thing.

Although I began to enjoy wearing different wigs, dating post-hair loss was scary. My first date wearing a wig proved nerve-racking. I wondered if he could tell and it took me two hours to get ready and choose a wig. Yet, as the night wore on, I didn't think about my wig at all.

The hard part was confessing the truth after a few dates. I wasn't sure how to approach it. I decided to open the door wigless upon him coming over for the first time. I can't say why I chose that method, except that it felt less vulnerable than taking the wig off in front of him. I honestly thought it could be funny and had a couple of jokes planned. But he just kissed me hello and asked for a tour. It took him fifteen minutes to say, "Did you cut your hair?" He had only seen me with a thick, black wig that fell to my mid-back, and my natural hair was a short bob, extremely thin with bald spots, and light brown.

I realized right then I was worrying more than necessary. The experience helped me comfortably switch up wigs when I saw him or sometimes not wear one at all. When we stopped seeing each other a few months later, I decided to start telling men on the first date. Not one of them was weirded out.

I started PRP treatment in the fall of 2023. I had met a woman at an event who had great success with it. I wanted to say I had tried everything. After eight months of injections, I started to see some regrowth. I started testing out leaving the house with my natural hair. It took courage at first, as my new growth was short, spiky, and curly. And it took some time, but I did eventually go on a first date without a wig. It was liberating.

I found what works for me as I adjust to my new normal. My hair will never be what it was, and there are ups and downs. But as I hear other people's stories on social media and in person, I feel less alone than I did four years ago.

The change within occurred when I accepted certain truths. I accepted that I have hair loss and I'm aging, and one day, I'll look in the mirror, and it won't be just my hair that's changed. It isn't easy, but embracing this reality feels infinitely better than resisting it. Surrendering became my strength — recognizing that losing my hair doesn't equate to losing myself.

Read the original article on Business Insider