How Losing My Hair Taught Me to Listen

It took my hair falling out by the handfuls to get my attention.

My hair has always shed. I cannot remember a time when I was not shedding. I have always had thick, long blonde hair. Family and loved ones are forever picking pieces of my hair off their clothes and making jokes about how I have no future as a criminal due to the trail of DNA I leave in my wake.

So when my roommate first mentioned that she had to clean my hair out of the washing machine, it wasn’t that odd. However, it did put it on my radar. Soon after, I started to notice the increased number of strands that would fall from my scalp when I ran my fingers through my hair. Odd. Mildly worrisome and definitely bizarre.

So naturally, I did the smartest thing; I quickly justified it away. The seasons were changing, and Fall was upon us. That must be it. Of course, my loving roommate wasted no time pointing out that if the seasons were going to influence my hair, wouldn’t I shed in the summer and grow more in the Fall? There went that theory!

Okay. Point well made. So then I just eased into denial. I threw my hair up on top of my head every day and kept on with my bad self. My hypo-allergenic Schnoodle didn’t shed, then why should I?

I creatively ignored the tumbleweed-like hair creatures that started to blow around on the apartment floor. However, after the maintenance guy cleaned out the bathroom drain for the third or fourth time. I slipped into the stage of acceptance. Something was not right. I was losing hair like a Siberian Husky stranded on a tropical deserted island. Crap.

I diagnosed myself with Alapeasia, thyroid disease, anemia, protein deficiency, and secondary syphilis. (And boy, oh BOY, did my boyfriend have some explaining to do!) I was obviously dying. It was a sign. My body was betraying me.

In a call to my mother, where I was educating her on my very dramatic self-diagnosis, she asked if maybe it was simply stressed induced? She quickly reminded me that I had lost my job several weeks ago. Of course, I knew this (thanks for bringing that up again, Mom!), but I had been through worse. I dismissed her painful reminder and threw myself into medical research, pushing past the surface Google results.

Genetics? Nope. Both of my parents and both sets of grandparents had healthy headfuls of hair. However, in my reading, patterns started to emerge from medical studies. Thyroid issues? Meh, maybe. Hormone imbalances? I don’t think I am acting crazy, but if I was, would I even know? Menopause? Sweet googly moogly, I sure hope not. Not yet. A side effect of a traumatic event? Don’t think so. Can’t think of anything anyway, but maybe I hit my head?

Because thyroid issues have run in my family, I made an appointment with my physician. I ran through the whole scenario with him. He took my blood and sent me on my way.

My vitamin level results were healthy, and my hormone levels were in check. No vitamin issues, no thyroid issues, and definitely no menopause. What the hell??

The conversation with my doctor came back to trauma. “What has recently happened that could be a trigger?” he asked. I told him about losing my job but assured him I was okay. As I started to lay it all out, I heard myself tell him about how I uprooted my entire life to move across the country for this job and that when I was released from my contract because the company had to downsize, I was hurt, but secretly relieved. I shared with him that I was not missing the 14 or15-hour workdays or the toxic environment. Nor was I missing the great lengths I would go to avoid the owner of the company on a daily basis or how only tolerated it all out of necessity. Somehow, it was like my physician tapped into a reservoir of feelings, and it dawned on me. My mother was right, after all.

Losing my job had been emotional, but I had been through much more traumatic situations in my life and could not recall losing my hair due to any of them. The dots just didn’t connect.

I took this puzzle to the person who had a front-row seat for the entire experience, my partner. I asked for his take on this conclusion. It was then he gently reminded me of the reality I had been working (living) in, of how I was exhausted, sad, and frustrated more times than most, and of how many times I would share things that had been said or done and how I had been both drinking and crying more (not always at the same time). He reminded me of how it ended, the hour and a half conversation the owner had with me, where he said things such as, “You know you are smarter than (my coworker’s name), don’t you?”, “You are so pretty, I just thought you were smarter,” and “I hope this doesn’t make our friendship awkward.” (His definition of friendship was painfully different than mine.)

And then my boyfriend wrapped his arms around me and reminded me of how hard I had cried for three days solid after it was over because I could no longer protect my team.

Everything he said was right. I could not argue with any of it. However, it sounded a lot more traumatic when he said it out loud. Okay. A traumatic event was the culprit. (How I could have ever let something like that happened is a topic for another article. I am still trying to figure it out myself.)

But why was I losing my hair now? I had already moved on and found new employment. I was in a healthy place. I was eating healthy, exercising, intellectually challenged, and appreciated. From what I could find in my research, excess shedding due to trauma can take up to three months to start after the trigger occurs due to hair growth cycles. That made sense, but as a person who never focused on negative things (and could barely tell you what she ate for the meal before), how in the world would I have any idea this would happen? Age and experience, my friends, these are how.

This was a loud and clear lesson to listen to my body. In that working environment, I was unhappy. I told myself to stay and endure to protect my team from a direct impact, but no one was watching out for me. I told myself I could make it better.

It was because I did not listen to the red flags, the gut checks, my common sense, my body had to intervene. Ironically, my body had been intervening — the weight gain, the increased drinking every night after work, the increased blood pressure, and the tears. I hated everything about that entire experience, and my body did too. But I didn’t listen. I fix things. I was going to make it better. My determination overrode my body’s attempt to get my attention.

When it was finally over, my body got my attention in yet another way. It got the last word. Stress is unhealthy, and there are longer lasting side effects. Thankfully my hair will grow back, and until then, buns are in style. I escaped with only side effects that required short recovery time. But what will happen next time I don’t listen? How bad will it have to get for my body to get my attention?

I don’t know what I don’t know, and there is a lot I have to learn. However, this was a lesson that taught me to listen. My body sent out a warning shot. Now it is up to me on what to do with what I know now.

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