Alopecia and Me

There’s a balloon on my head or at least that’s what it looks like. How do I explain alopecia in terms that people may empathise with and dare I dream even understand? Our immune system is meant to fight infectious organisms and substances but mine decided over 25 years ago that this includes my hair. Yes, my own body’s defence mechanism went on a friendly fire offensive against my hair cells and killed them.

First it looked like hairs on the pillow and soon there were none left on my head. By none I mean none, at times of stress I have no hairs anywhere on my body that a woman would. However, I did notice little white hairs on my arms on Monday, which some may say but everybody does Fi – well my body hasn’t done so in over twenty years! My hair has grown back once and nearly back twice only to fall out again within a few months so now can hardly remember what it feels like to have any hair at all.

Being bald drained any outward self confidence, the bullying at school left their own scars to make for a vicious cocktail inside of me. Looking in a mirror became a phobia as I was scared to see the freak in my head in flesh and the ogre have physical form. I had zero therapy to understand it all and the doctors were as useful as chocolate teapots when I could see one but even then the control of my life was not in my hands. It is only now I have accepted fully that it is part of me, I will never be able to stop others reaction to it and do not care what they might say or do for there is no cure to reason to laugh at me. I am overdue buying a new wig, I feel like a change…one thing is for sure I’m not going blonde!

© Fi S. J. Brown

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The Baldness Ballad

At dusk I cried on hearing the sound of falling hair from head,
By dawn I sobbed as counted the hairs sprinkled on my pillow.
Knowing like leaves in a forest at fall soon there would be none,
Without any send off, funeral, mass, or toast with an old glass.

The inevitable sequel was made but bombed on day of release,
And my immune system blocked any future remakes of its story.
Leaving the me exposed and naked to a judging planet of apes,
With the moon now on my head painted as an ogre in my mind.

For nearly twenty five years the self portrait remained unchanged,
Until I learnt to dance to a new beat and so painted myself afresh.
So the patchwork doll came to life on the canvas and into my mind,
Sitting like Buddhist priest in repose as only fitting for one so bald.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Being Bald

It all started with these patches,
And brown strands on my pillow.
Tears fell like a blues harmonica,
And my words became lost at sea.
At that moment a freak was born,
Not yet thirteen and I was bald.

At school I wore a wig with a band,
And felt their eyes burning in green.
Depression suffocated me inside,
And yet outside no blood would fall.
Scarred forever when the wind blew,
And they laughed at me being bald.

By university it had gone all over,
And no funeral pyre or wake held.
So I grew to loathe how I looked,
And felt I had no human worth.
For who would love such a freak,
And just like an ogre I was bald.

Years passed until therapy begun,
And joined the dots with words.
Taking photographs was some fun,
And then I took that first selfie.
Forced to see my reflection a new,
And saw a woman, scared and bald.

That began the journey to find me,
And remove the ogre forevermore.
Realising the lab was far from me,
And wondering just where did I fit.
As I heard that bird sing in a tree,
And wished to be as free not bald.

Switching test tubes for Biro pens,
And microscope for camera lenses.
I discovered the woman I am within,
And found a rag doll not an ogre be.
Now I accept with kindness and love,
And being bald is just part of being me.

© Fi S. J. Brown