I am Woman, Watch me Cry: Part 1

Emily Apuzzo Hopkins | March 14th, 2024

My hair loss did not occur overnight. 

It did not come as the result of a catastrophic diagnosis. 

It just slowly crept in. I was 17 when my mom first noticed my hair was thinner than it once had been. As a girl, I had thick, curly hair. Difficult to get in a ponytail holder. 

As with many pre-teens I tried to straighten it into oblivion - my desperate attempt to fit in with the blonde-haired, stick-straight tresses of my friends. I flat-ironed regularly. I even went as far as chemically straightening it a handful of times - not ever really embracing the fact that my hair was not straight. And would always want to return to the homeostasis of naturally curly hair. 

So when 17 rolled around and brought with it thinner hair, I had to assume that it had been the stress I had inflicted upon it for so many years. Through my late teens and into college, I covered it up with bandanas and hats or carefully combed coifs, hairspray just so, and fastened with a clip to cover up the fact that it had gotten significantly worse.

I cried almost every morning as I got ready in my dorm room. This was my fault. How would I ever compete in the competition of femininity I believed I had been signed up for? 

I went through hormone testing which turned up nothing. Leading me to believe even more that this was my fault. This was totally my fault.

When I was 21, I went to Italy for a semester - happily distracted by the beauty around me even though I saw it nowhere near the mirrors I gazed in daily. It had been ages since I had a haircut and I decided to join a friend at a salon she stumbled upon near our apartment. I sat down in the chair - excited for this new Italian experience. 

Then I saw it. 

I saw the stylist’s face - one of concern, one of not knowing quite what to do. 

He retrieved the manager - they spoke. My Italian too limited to quite understand what they were discussing. Then he asked if he could do a keratin treatment.

 “Sure!” I said entirely more enthusiastically than I felt. 

I was mortified. I wanted to run out of the salon. Feeling exposed. Feeling naked. And feeling like this vulnerable secret I had covered up for so long was out in the world.

In the months that followed, my mom stumbled across a solution that would include gluing on a hairpiece every month or so. I started this process several months after my 22nd birthday. And I felt like I had won the lottery. My confidence came back. The downside… I had to go through this process every 4-6 weeks - watching my bank account take a pretty brutal hit each time.

Intimacy was also, well, intimate. As a man would begin to run his hand through my hair, I constantly felt like I was on the defensive - having to explain what was in there. Sometimes toward the end of the month, I would also have to hide the fact that the glue was loosening and the hair that once gave me confidence was becoming a nuisance and requiring the headbands and bandanas I thought I had put away.

As I reflect on it, I can’t help but think a lot of my more tomboy nature came out in my clothes in instances like this. Not feeling feminine enough to have luscious flowing locks and instead hiding behind hats and headbands.

I transitioned to weave which was great for stepping away from the glue made of god-knows-what, but also adding new stressors for my delicate scalp. Very tight braids. I embraced this new way of doing things. It allowed me to change colors, play with lengths, and adjust textures as I wanted. That was fun.

But after 15 years of doing this, I wanted to know - what was actually going on with my scalp?

At 37, I finally went to my dermatologist and told her, “I have significant hair loss. Do you know what it might be?” 

Immediately - an answer. “Androgenetic alopecia. Have other women in your family had thinning hair?”

“Yes, they have. I guess I never really noticed it, but yeah, definitely.”

“There are two things that have proven to help: Minoxidil and Finasteride.”

Downtrodden, I shared that I had used minoxidil in the past to no avail. My hopes of a solution were dashed.

“Let’s try finasteride then. I will put you on the highest dose and within a few years, we should start to see some changes.”

A few years?! Damn. Still, a small glimmer of that once-lost hope returned.

I continued to get sew-ins and then something happened when I turned 38. My female anatomy was torturing me. Bada bing, bada boom - hysterectomy (more on that in part 2). 

Nearly a full year after that, I just wanted to have MY hair back. I wanted to be able to grow hairs on MY own head. I wanted to be able to treat MY curls with the respect they deserved so long ago. 

I decided I wanted to get to the root of things. In the fall of my 39th year, I started reading up on options. Had I exhausted all of them? 

I found information for laser therapy, hair transplants, plasma therapy - surely I would not be able to afford any of this and honestly, I thought I had waited too long. But then something happened… I was a good candidate for laser therapy and while not free, it was not going to break the bank. But, it was also going to take a while. 6 months. With visits around twice a week.

BUT.

There were real results with other people and this just might do something. For me. I might get hair again.

So, what happened? Well, my story is not done yet. I started the process about a month and a half ago. And, I think, it’s working. It’s not a huge change quite yet. Some baby hairs here and there. Some thickening of the hairs that had already been there. A change in texture. And perhaps the biggest change I needed in nearly 23 years. 

Hope.

And I hope for more than that. 

I hope I get to show results. I hope I get to come back here with an update. With pictures of the girl - the woman - who no longer cries in front of the mirror. I hope to introduce you to the dark brown curls that are growing out of my head - now joined by a few gray friends. I want that. I cling so desperately to that.