It Isn't What's on the Head That's Important — It's What in It

My hair, once my crowning glory, took a back seat when I married and had children. As a teenager, I was able to tease it, tuck it, straighten it or curl it. Page boys, French twists, and bouffant dos adorned my head. Then marriage and children came. Busy raising my young family, I turned to easy-to-manage hairstyles.

Soon my children were grown and I had more time for myself. One day I took a good long look in the mirror. I didn't recognize the woman who looked back at me. When had my hair thinned? When had my hairline begun to recede, and my forehead to grow? I was only in my early fifties.

I quickly made an appointment with a dermatologist. Maybe I just needed vitamins. After several tests to eliminate other medical conditions, it was determined that I had female pattern baldness.

While this condition didn't affect my physical health, it did affect me psychologically — how I thought about myself and how I behaved because of it. Several of the women I interviewed felt the same way.

Jackie said, "I permed my hair. That helped for a while. Then I changed the style. That helped too — until the day a waiter, standing over me, mistakenly called me sir. I was devastated. His embarrassment, when I looked up and he realized his error, didn't alleviate the despondency that suddenly overwhelmed me."

I knew exactly how Jackie felt. My husband and children attempted to reassure me that my hair was perfectly all right and I allowed myself to believe them, until I was called sir, first by the conductor on the train, and then by a sales clerk the very same day.

I rushed home and locked myself in the bathroom. Mirror in hand, I studied my head from every angle. The hairline on the sides of my temple went way back. And my scalp was blatantly visible through the thin hair at the top of my head. While I knew my once treasured tresses were no more, I had been totally unaware of exactly how thin my hair had become.

In restaurants I sat with my back against a wall so the server could not stand behind me. In movie theaters, I waited for the lights to dim before sitting down so the person seated behind me wouldn't see the top of my head.

Although I had always enjoyed a more natural look, I took to wearing large earrings, and using makeup. Out went my tee shirts and jeans and in, feminine, frilly clothes. I researched, then vetoed hair weaves (a headache for three days because of the pulling of the scalp), and hair transplants (no guarantees and mega bucks). I tried hats, but they only worked outdoors, and scarfs, but they were so not me.

I paid a small fortune to have human hair carefully matched to my salt and pepper tresses and then stitched into a hairpiece. I'd wear it clipped to the top of my head with my own hair blended in at the base. That was passable — for half a summer. Then it oxidized to an awful yellow hue and looked more like a dead chicken on top of my head than the expensive piece that it had been. When I returned to the shop, I was told the only solution was to custom-make another piece. Being frugal, the idea of spending another fortune for yet another temporary remedy distressed me.

I went through my fair share of less expensive hair pieces. I sweated through mass produced human hair wigs and synthetic ones as well. I wouldn't let anyone touch my head for fear they'd know I was wearing a wig. And, once athletic, swimming and biking lost their appeal. I used to love walking on the beach and now, with each gust of wind, I had to grab for my head. I could no longer enjoy the feel of a breeze blowing through my hair.

I looked at the assortment of wigs I'd accumulated, and shuddered with a new awareness. It suddenly dawned on me that I had been trying to pass for someone I wasn't. While other women may enjoy makeup and frilly clothes and maybe even enjoy wearing wigs, I wasn't one of them.

I became angry with myself for feeding into all of the societal images of what women were supposed to look like. I decided that the woman I had been was the one I wanted back — hair or no hair. Still, I needed to convince myself.

I put post-its all over the house. And wherever I turned I read, "I am special," "I am terrific just the way I am," "I am loved by the people who count, with hair or without it." It took a while until I finally began to believe my affirmations. I had my hair cut short — real short. I gave my wigs to a charity. I began swimming again. And I began to work out: exercising, walking. I joined a karate class, and then one for Tai Chi. And I began to really feel good about myself.

If the truth be told, there are some very positive things about having thin hair. I can wash it and it's dry before I'm fully dressed. I don't need to carry hair clips, rollers or sprays with me when I travel. Hair dryers are a thing of the past. And I do, on occasion, use my lack of hair to my benefit. Although my face is young and unlined, since most eyes focus only on my hair, I am often given senior citizen prices when I buy movie tickets. I receive discounts on senior citizen days at local stores. And, almost inevitably, some kind soul will offer me a seat on the rush-hour subway, or help me with my luggage at an airport.

While I have to admit that sometimes, because of my diminishing mane, salespeople don't treat me with the courtesy they once did during my better hair days, now I feel sorry for them, not me. Occasionally I notice sideward glances from strangers, and sometimes I catch people looking at my forehead during a conversation. Often, when they realize they've been staring, they'll utter something like, "uh, you've got beautiful skin."

I do have beautiful skin but instead of saying simply "thank you," I now respond with a chuckle, "it's a good thing, because I have a lot of it showing." That usually eases their embarrassment.

I realize I can't stop anyone from judging me by my lack of hair, but chances are, a person who does isn't someone I want in my life anyway. Those closest to me know the woman I really am and that's what matters most. Besides, I'm in good company. Jessica Tandy and Queen Victoria had hairlines like mine. They knew, and I have learned, it isn't what's on the head that's important, it's what's in it that counts.

Carren Strock 
Carren Strock has often been called a Renaissance woman. Equally at home with a paintbrush and canvas, a needle and thread, or a hammer and nails, she is as eclectic in her writing as she is in her other interests. The author of seven books, she is best known for her ground-breaking book Married Women Who Love Women, now in its third edition. Read More