Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I took a deep breath. I lifted up my hair and noticed to my horror that my hairline was rapidly receding. What was once a relatively straight line was now a wave. I had been noticing a thinning of my hair for some time, and a few stray hairs on my pillow, but I thought nothing of it. Some thickening shampoo should fix that in no time, I thought. But now I had proof. At the tender age of 16, I was beginning to lose my hair. If only my stupid genetics could’ve waited until I had finished school.
I never really stood much of a chance. I come from a long lineage of bald, hairy Jews. Baldness is said to be passed down through the maternal side, but all the men on both sides of my family have scalps you can see your reflection in. I always saw impending baldness on the horizon, but that didn’t make it any less devastating when it finally became a reality. The cruel thing about a lot of cases of male pattern baldness is that it is believed to be more common in men with higher levels of testosterone, meaning you’ll likely have a healthy amount of body hair, but not much of it on your head. If there is a god, he clearly thinks my life is a hilarious joke.
And so, operation cover-up began. It worked for a few months — it wasn’t as technically advanced as Donald Trump’s follicular architecture, but it served a purpose. The act of sweeping my hair from one side over to the other gave the somewhat convincing impression that I was a normal 16-year-old with a full head of hair. Out of sight, out of mind. But as time progressed, the hair on the top of my head began growing thinner and thinner, until a combover was no longer a viable option.
Friends and family began to comment. People began to ruffle my hair at school, destroying the complex engineering I had put in that morning. I have always had a troubling relationship with my physical appearance, with a keen desire to blend into the milieu of my social group. The fact that people were beginning to notice and make fun of me motivated me even more to fight back against my receding hairline.
My father took me to see a hair specialist. Sitting in the waiting room, I felt like there was something wrong with me. The doctor had a cursory glance at my hair and concluded almost immediately that it was a classic case of Male Pattern Baldness. I was told there was nothing I could really do about it, but there were some options available to me that could slow the process. He prescribed me a few different medications for me to take, and a few solutions for me to use on my scalp.
The doctor was right, the process was slowed down for some time, but ultimately resistance was futile. Being in an up-and-coming indie band at this time made the situation even harder. All my contemporaries, including my bandmates, had full, luscious heads of hair. What you rarely saw was a balding musician, especially not one who was still in their teenage years. At every photo shoot, video shoot, and live performance, my physical appearance began to consume me. Anxiety and depression began to overwhelm me, and I began to hate myself.
Throughout my early to mid-twenties, my battle with my hair loss became more and more pointless. I still had some hair on my head, but I was at a loss with what I could really do with it. I decided to do what many bald people do and grow a beard, in an effort to balance out the symmetry.
One summer evening in 2017, I was invited to the opening of an upmarket men’s grooming shop in Central London. I had been getting haircuts up until this point, but they were always under strict instruction to not cut any of the precious hairs from the top of my head unless it was absolutely necessary to do so. At the back of the shop, a professional barber in a smart, white shirt was giving out free haircuts. Why not, I thought, get a free haircut that would ordinarily cost around £50. I sat down and gave him my usual speech about what he could and couldn’t do to my remaining hair. He interrupted me. ‘Listen to me. I’m going to shave your head.’ My stomach dropped. No, anything but this. I began to protest, but he put a firm hand on my shoulder, and looked me in the eye. ‘Trust me, it’s going to be ok.’
Within a few minutes my hair was gone. I got up and floated around the room. I was free. My hair had become a cage of anxiety which I was locked in for years, but after a few swift motions of his clippers, it was gone. A weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I didn’t have to worry anymore. Now a new challenge presented itself to me: I had to learn to love myself again.
Today, this is something I’m still working on. I love being bald. I jokingly say it makes me more aerodynamic, meaning I can run and swim faster. I also half-jokingly say that men with hair are generally more boring and uninteresting compared to bald men (a theory which still remains unchallenged). My bank balance has also appreciated the amount I’ve saved on getting my hair cut. Unfortunately, the attitude of my friends and family largely contributed to the subsequent complex I had about my hair loss. They made me feel like I had an illness that needed to be cured. If I had someone like that barber who could’ve placed a hand on my shoulder and told me everything was going to be ok, maybe I would’ve saved myself years of pain and anxiety.
Losing your hair can be devastating, and different people deal with it in different ways. Perceptions about hair loss in the media doesn’t help the anxiety people feel around it. There have been countless articles about Jude Law and his hairline, for example, which over the years has progressed and retreated like a 2p machine at an arcade. Of course, it’s important to note that this is something women have to face every single day, with numerous adverts and articles aimed solely at making people feel inadequate. It is the collective anxiety that we all feel around the ageing process that has funded a booming cosmetics industry for decades.
I’ve spoken to a few people who are beginning to lose their hair now, and my advice is always the same. Shave your head. It will free you from your cage. Hair loss is unstoppable, but the real power comes from within. It’s been a long road, but for the first time in years I can say with certainty that I’m truly happy in my own skin. I will not wear a hat (unless it’s sunny). I refuse to spend thousands of pounds on a hair transplant. Take me as I am. Bald men, say it with me: I am bald and proud.