I was six years old when my hair began to fall out. One morning, I woke up and my pillow was covered with hair. One patch on my head turned into larger spots of exposed skin during the following days.
Within weeks, I had no hair on my scalp. A year later, I had no eyebrows or eyelashes. I was perfectly bald in what seemed like an imperfect body.
I have alopecia, an autoimmune disorder in which one’s immune system attacks the body’s hair follicles. “There is not a cure for this disease,” the doctor told my parents during my diagnosis almost 15 years ago.
The doctor looked at me and smiled. “You know champ, the ladies love a bald head,” he said pointing to his own decades-old naked scalp. A nurse laughed in admiration. I winced, responding in my mind with the thought that girls were gross and so was my creepy doctor.
Some of my hair grew back in patches after periods of treatment, which consisted of steroid injections to my scalp and eyebrows. It hurt a lot, and I sometimes question why my parents and I committed to all the medical bills and disappointments with the goal of making me look normal.
Then, I remember how much my body image is shaped by myself and others.
In fourth grade, after I won the annual spelling bee, a boy in my class told everyone I was an alien. “He is a bald-headed freak!” he shouted during recess.
A year later, I built up the courage to talk to a girl I liked. She kept on staring at my head rather than at my face as I spoke to her. I never talked to her again.
In middle school, an eighth grader called me “cancer patient” after he lost against my team in dodgeball. But the bigger bully was me. I shamefully told myself in that moment that I wished I did have cancer; at least then there would be a greater chance I could eventually escape such an ugly life.
