The Price of Self-Abandonment: What Alopecia Taught Me About Wholeness
- Jelisha Jones
- 2 days ago
- 5 min read
I have alopecia, and I wear my bald head proudly now.
Alopecia is hair loss that can be the result of medical conditions, hormonal changes, or genetics. While it is treatable, sometimes its effects can be permanent. When I am out in public, I catch people staring. Online, where I share my story, I receive backhanded compliments — comments that circle how lucky I am to be attractive, or how I could always wear a wig, or how I should “dress up my face” more to distract from the baldness. I could hide away.
These things used to matter to me so much – what others said and thought of me. It was as if they were the air that I breathed.
How It Began
Approximately ten years ago, I had one hair appointment after another, a new woman’s fingers grazing my scalp every other month — a braiding style here, an expensive lace wig there. In 2015, long before TikTok existed and before Snapchat became as popular as it is today, Instagram built the world of desirable women.
On Instagram, I studied women who were deemed beautiful, sexy, and the ultimate prize by men. I secretly prayed that I would gather the same number of likes, comments, and attention. A man liking my photo somehow validated my worth and existence. My focus became achieving the most beautiful hair. Even if it wasn’t my own.
I didn’t notice the first warning signs: the thinning of my edges, the brittleness of my hair at the crown of my head. No hairstylist raised red flags about what was going on with my scalp, and I don’t fault them for it. They ran a business, and their job was to provide what their customer needed, but their speciality was not natural hair care. Through this journey, I’ve learned the importance of seeking out stylists who specialise in and care about a woman’s natural hair.
How It Got Out of Control
In my mid-twenties, after another disappointing rejection from a man, I became obsessed with the notion that I simply needed to fix my body. I became their fantasy, and I was deeply attached to the validation and attention they gave me. I would do anything to maintain the illusion — even sacrifice my natural hair for expensive weaves that flowed down my back.
But soon, my hair stopped growing, and I couldn’t hide from it anymore. I panicked. If I weren’t a man’s fantasy, if I weren’t the bombshell, they wouldn’t want me anymore. The attention would be lost, the adoration gone, and I would once again be an afterthought. Forgotten.
Truth be told, I could’ve sought help for my insecurities then, but I needed to play the game of fantasy a little bit longer.
How I Lost It All
During the pandemic, at thirty-two, I cut what little hair I had left and became a new woman: carefree, bold, and still beautiful. The attention had waned slightly, but I still gathered eyes and adoration from men online and in public, feeding my deep-seated wounds.
I tried to keep living the fantasy by dyeing my hair every month – one month, blonde, the next, jet-black, and one day, even purple. I empowered other women to embrace their flaws while I hid behind a mask of complete acceptance. I became a self-love coach, spoke at wellness events, and hosted retreats for women seeking guidance on how to love the skin that they were in. While it felt reaffirming to help others, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
How could I help anyone if I weren’t being honest with myself first?
Two years ago, I woke up and discovered that the crown of my head was completely bare. I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, and I could see straight through. I had a small afro at this point. I should not have been able to see my scalp. But there it was. There was no amount of brushing, twisting, moulding that could hide this truth that lay bare before me. The dam had broken. The illusion was gone. I panicked, tears welled up in my eyes, my stomach churned, and I felt a deep sense of dread looming over me. What was I to do?
I had played the game for so long that I had nothing left to give. What do you do when you lose a piece of your identity that has kept you desirable, wanted, and valued in the eyes of others?
How I Regained Myself
I could hide away. I tried to. I wore wigs. I kept up the fantasy. But something kept gnawing at my subconscious: “You don’t need this anymore,” I heard a voice – my own voice - say, “you’re enough. You’ve always been enough.”
What was I afraid of? That I wouldn’t be loved? That I wouldn’t be chosen?
One morning, I stood in my bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror as I shaved my head completely. Surprisingly, I didn’t cry, I didn’t scream, I didn’t shout - I laughed. A deep, full belly laugh escaped from the depths of me as I realised that I had been fooled. I thought something would change by accepting my alopecia, that somehow, I would be a different woman, undeserving or unworthy. But how naive I had been! I was still the same person with the same face, the same smile, and the same open heart. Fear had tried to cripple me, but it was all a facade.
My life did not end, nor did it blow up in my face.
As I stared at myself, I held myself in my arms, rocking back and forth. My chest heaved. The cries began then. Through therapy, I came to understand: by honouring myself, I was ultimately healing my inner child because, for so long, I had been trying to console her by being the fantasy, by being the perfect woman, by seeking validation from others when my younger self had always been looking for me to give her that love and affection.
Where I Am
Through therapy, self-work, and prioritising my self-care, I now know the only validation I need is my own. I work through my insecurities by affirming myself daily in the mirror – I tell myself I am worthy, I am beautiful, I am enough – and I extend gratitude to my body and my bald head for being healthy. I wear clothes that make me feel confident, and I always add an extra accessory or two that gives me an extra oomph.
There are days when the old negative voice wants to creep back in, but I don’t retreat when I hear it. I let myself be seen. I let myself feel the discomfort of it all. Because I now know that shadows cannot thrive in the light, I let the pain wash over me, seep into my pores until it falls to the floor. Then, I breathe in deep and let the love I feel for myself take hold of me. And all at once, I am whole again.
