I’m not a vain person. I might write a column about my life, but I don’t really care about myself or what is in my head.
But then. I went almost bald. And suddenly I did care.
It happened one night. It wasn’t gradual. It was sudden. It was a shock. I had washed my hair before a trip to London for work the next day. While it was still wet, I walked my dogs. I got back. My hair was one big, matted lump. Dreadlocks. What the hell? It wasn’t that windy, was it? What was going on?
When I lived in London – oh, happy days! – I washed my hair every morning. Due to the pollution, the water would run black. It was my ritual. But in the countryside, with cleaner air, I only wash it when I’m about to go out for dinner, say, or on a date (rare) or am in town for work.
I started to untangle my hair using my fingers, and as I did so, I was shocked to find great big hanks in my hands. At first, I thought this was because I hadn’t brushed it. This is normal, surely. Nothing to worry about. Calm, Lizzie. Calm. I collected the hair and put it on the fire, where it fizzed, like a firework.
The next day, I broke the habit of a lifetime: I looked in the mirror. Never a good idea. My head looked smaller – tiny, like a pea. I could see scalp. I gathered my hair in my fist: it was no longer thick. It felt flimsy. Insubstantial.
Fear set in. I didn’t want to confront it. I didn’t want to put my hair in a top knot for a bath, as surely the elastic hair tie would confirm my deepest fears. I didn’t want to wash my hair, because of the fear of what I would find in the plughole: evidence. I didn’t want to go out.
I didn’t want to book my usual roots tint, as I was afraid the hairdresser would recoil and confirm my suspicions. A friend suggested a dog walk: I asked her if she had a spare beanie. In a strong wind, I would put my hand to my scalp, just to check I wasn’t completely bald.
My hair has always been my thing. I have always had long, dark, thick hair. It is my armour, my protection. My hair has been a constant. I hide behind it. I play with it. I swish it. Men love it. As you hover over them, naked, you tickle them with it. I was always glad, relieved, that my hair covered my breasts, the horrible scars, the abnormal nipples.
I kept thinking I was wrong. That it was normal. That it was a passing thing, to do with spring.
It was like grief, losing my hair. These things aren’t supposed to happen. Products are supposed to help. As a child I had split ends: I bought Protein 21 in Boots; I could only afford the sachet.
During puberty, my scalp was greasy. I bought products: Wella Balsam, Breck. When I started to go grey, I bought products. But this! This!
I went to the Harley Street Hair Clinic. Of course, I did. The lovely doctor told me his wife has thinning hair: children, career decisions, stress. I don’t care about your wife! I only care about me! He prescribed vitamins. He said something must have happened about seven months ago to cause this sudden hair loss.
I look at my calendar. At that time, I was ill, suffering from vertigo and vomiting. Was that it? Or was it the medication, which I’ve now stopped. I don’t want to be bald. I’d rather throw up and still have hair. We can fix skin problems with make-up. Wrinkles with surgery. I don’t want to wear a wig. I have enough problems. Why is this happening to me?
It’s like the final straw. First cuckolded. Then penury. Illness. And now light bounces off my scalp. I can be enjoying my morning porridge and find I’m eating hair. The washing machine is protesting. My pillow is blighted. The hair loss is like a symbol of my fallibility.
It never occurred to me that this would happen. Why didn’t Vogue warn me? Why can no one do anything other than laugh and stare?
