They say there are five stages of grief and that there is no order in how a person navigates a certain loss. For me, grief has always been a journey that never ends, and I don’t know if I will ever reach a place of acceptance. How do you accept something that is permanently lost to you forever? Acceptance isn’t the word I would use to describe grief.
It is surrendering.
If you cannot change what is, you have no choice but to lift your hands to the tides of this life and embrace the freefall. That’s where I currently reside—in the valley of contentment and surrender.
There is grace lying somewhere within the depths of me that allows me to write the hard part out loud now: “I am thirty-five years old, and I have alopecia.”
Whew! That felt good to be released into the world. A dam was just broken. A flood has commenced.
I’ve been in denial for years—eight years to be precise. I’ve tried it all: doctors, herbal treatments, body oils, pills, teas, food treatments, prayer, shaman work—you name it, I have done it.
It worked for a while. I cut my hair short and felt like I could breathe easily as the secret lay within the crevices of my soul. No one knew the truth but my mother, and with my hair short, no one would ever know. We secretly came up with different concoctions to try to make the balding spots grow, but when they didn’t, I ignored what was coming toward me and pushed deeper into my oblivion.
Eventually, I became obsessed with dyeing my hair regularly. Now, if I had any common sense, I would have known that I probably shouldn’t keep applying bleach to an already fragile, balding scalp. But I lived in delulu land and plunged further into the abyss of stupidity.
This saga continued until one morning in early 2023, a shock ran through my body as I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror—I could see my scalp. I knew I had balding spots, but this was the first time that my thinning hair had become so brittle that you could see my bald scalp.
The jig was up.
The walls felt heavy, and the urge to collapse within myself felt overwhelming. My mind raced with the voices of depravity.
How could I be so stupid? Why did I keep dyeing my hair? Omg, I’m bald!
I spent that evening secretly looking up Black women who shaved their heads after hair loss on YouTube. I watched countless videos. Some of them had already tried the many hair loss treatments I had given up on. Some had accepted their fate that their hair would never return, and some still believed there was a sliver of hope left that maybe, just maybe, by cutting off their remaining hair, they would be offered a fresh start. A do-over, if you will.
I found myself in the latter belief.
I needed to stay in delulu land a little bit longer. It felt nice there. It was comfortable, and being optimistic never hurt anybody, so I made a commitment to shave my head bald and then watch patiently as my hair grew back to what it was once before.
I shaved my head in April 2023.
The stares came. The probing questions followed. The backhanded compliments were thrown out as a bleak offering of sympathy. I felt strong, bold, and impenetrable with a shaved head. You couldn’t tell me shit about myself.
But late at night, when I was left to my thoughts, I secretly prayed that my hair would grow back.
I affirmed to myself: My hair is healthy. My scalp is healthy. My hair grows back with ease and grace. My hair is thick and luscious.
I prayed, I prayed, and I prayed some more.
I created a nightly ritual with my sage and wished upon my ancestor altar for assistance with my request…
May, June, July…
My hair wasn’t growing.
August, September, October…
No, it didn’t grow an inch.
November, December, January…
By this point, I was fully back to wearing wigs and numb. I had alopecia. This was for certain. The truth was ringing loud in my ears, but I feared for the future of what this would mean for me.
Who would want me with a bald head?
Why did this have to happen to me?
Am I still beautiful without my hair?
Fears from my childhood plagued me; I grew up with the desire of wanting so desperately to fit in, to be chosen, and to be accepted. A fat Black girl isn’t the kind to get noticed in a primarily white school. A fat Black girl isn’t the kind to be loved, adored, or accepted in a world that wants to demolish that girl’s existence. Now, at the age of 35, I was feeling like that fat, little Black girl again. But this time, instead of my weight being what kept me separate from my peers, it was my bald head.
I could handle stares from strangers. I could handle the questions. I could handle the backhanded compliments. This shit wasn’t anything new to me. I’ve lived with being ostracized my entire life.
Could I live with the truth of who I was?
A woman who would forever have alopecia.
I woke up one morning a few weeks ago and decided to try to step into my greatness again. I threw away my latest lace front wig (why the hell did I do that?! It cost me $200!) and wore my natural bald head out into society for the first time in over a year. I recently joined a women’s Hip-Hop class, and after spending the past year in isolation, I set an intention to meet like-minded women who were looking to grow and build with one another.
As I entered the class, I could feel the eyes on me immediately. You know those moments when people are trying to look at you, but they’re really looking at your insecurity (food in your teeth, lipstick on your face, etc.), and they don’t say anything…
They just stare.
I pushed past the stares and got lost in the rhythm of the music. I forgot how much I love the way dance makes me feel so liberated and free. My hips were swaying. That booty was jiggling. I was feeling myself, and a flood of joy pushed through my bloodstream. Warm, tingly, and so damn sweet.
By the end of the class, I was laughing with these women. I couldn’t wait to go back! I forgot the elephant in the room—my bald head and me. That shit didn’t matter. This moment right here mattered. And I basked in it.
As I walked to my car, one of the women from the class stopped me. “Can I ask…”
I felt a coldness sweep over me because I knew where she was going next.
“What made you shave your head?”
A smile tugged at my lips. “Honestly, it hasn’t been growing back.” I wasn’t ready to say the A-word out loud yet. “I’ve tried so many things, and it’s just kind of not growing back.”
“Because of stress?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “It may very well be, but I just decided to shave it all off.”
“You know, I have some treatment for that.”
The old me, the one from last year, perked up at this…
Maybe she could help me?
“You do?”
She smiled and nodded. “Girl, yes, we can work on those hair follicles if you want to give it a go.” She gave me her business card and bid me a good night.
A mixed bag of emotions ran through me as I drove home that night, uncertain. My intention was just to go out and have a good time. This bald head of mine could not go quiet in the dark with this big-ass light on me, lighting me up for the world to see, observe, and question. Don’t get me wrong, I was grateful that there are souls who desire to help me on this journey, but I wished I had more moments where being myself in this outside space was enough.
There’s a tiny piece of me that wanted to call her, set up an appointment, and try again. Go through the ebbs and flows of hopefulness, prayer, and faith. But there was a bigger part of me that wanted to just throw up my hands and say, “Fuck it.”
So, I did.
As I got home, I just sat in my car and breathed.
I didn’t want to keep hiding. I didn’t want to keep being stared at. I didn’t want to keep having to explain myself.
Then, stop explaining yourself.
The voice came in suddenly. It was certain, absolute, and definite. I breathed in through my nose, held it for four seconds, and exhaled out of my mouth.
The voice came back, clear again.
You don’t need to explain yourself, Jelisha, you just be who you are, and let people catch your wave or get the fuck out of the way.
I breathed in deep. 1, 2, 3, 4…exhale.
“I’m the wave,” I heard myself say, and I repeated it again. Louder. I yelled it. I screamed. Two, three, hell, maybe even four times. My throat hurt, but my belly felt warm and full with that tingly feeling I felt earlier at the dance class.
Sometimes the things that we hold so tightly to our chest feel light as a feather when we choose to give them away and surrender to what is. That’s the part that isn’t easy—releasing, letting go, and embracing the unknown. But as I sat in my car, breathing and affirming myself, I started to feel whole again.
The kind of whole you feel when you know that who you are is enough. The kind of whole you feel when everything is not right in the world, but at this moment, everything is right with you. The kind of whole you feel when gratitude swells deep in the core of your soul and pulls you further into the wave of unconditional love.
The kind of whole that cannot be explained.
I decided that I would surrender to what is.
“I have alopecia,” I spoke out loud, to myself, for the first time, “and I am glorious!”
I heard the fat, little Black girl now. She was laughing, deep, loud, and pure. Her body convulsed tightly as she heaved over with delight. Her hazel eyes crinkled as she lost herself in the bellows of her giggles. She was free, in the middle of this night, sitting in a car, dancing in her wildness. Her chuckles gave way to her heart expanding and bursting forth—love swallowing her up. As her laughs softened and she soothed herself to a silence, I watched her in amazement. As she surrenders, as she heals, she is healing me too.
What a gift my alopecia has given me.
I closed my eyes and breathed in deep one last time. I am excited for what’s to come…for my bald head and me.
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