It’s Different This Time

Yesterday I mentioned that my hair is coming out—and it is.

My alopecia areata is back to its nasty habits. Last week I started getting pimples on my scalp and the areas just behind both my ears feel hot and itchy. Then I ran my fingers through my wet hair and got a wad of it in my fist as a reward. Last night, I looked at my scalp and found a dime-sized bare patch.

I wish I could say I’m surprised, but I’m not. Especially after I looked up my arthritis drug on Google and there it was: dermatological side effects, alopecia.

I’m pissed off that my doctor failed to mention this, because he and I discussed my 90 percent AA hair loss/regrowth at length. I’m pissed off because this medicine is helping my knees—a lot. But I do not want to sacrifice my mental health for my physical health. I mean, what kind of Faustian bargain is that?

Seriously.

Anyway, last night as I combed through my hair looking for the source of the great clumps of hair I’m finding all over the place, The Poo brushed her teeth next to me.

“What ya doing, Mom?” she asked, watching me.

I put the mirror down. “Oh,” I replied, “just looking at my hair.”

She finished up her evening toilet (potty, tooth brushing, vitamin, allergy medicine) and we went to her room to tuck her in. As I pulled the quilt up around her chin, she looked up at me and asked me again: “Mom, but why were you looking at your hair?”

I hesitated. Did I really want to have this conversation now? But then again, did I want to wake up two weeks from now with great patches of bare scalp and have to explain it then?

I sat on her bed, and turned the light on so she could see me. “Well, sometimes Mommy’s hair falls out,” I said. I raised my hands, palms up, and shrugged. “Sometimes I have hair and sometimes I don’t. But it usually grows back.”

“That’s weird!” my daughter said.

“Yeah, it is. But even though I might look different sometimes, I’m always the same person,” I told her. “I am always your mommy.”

She smiled and reached out for her hug and kiss. I gave it to her, grateful that the conversation was over. As I left the room, I heard her say my name again.

“What is it, baby?” I turned back to look at her.

“Mom, but why does your hair fall out?”

I shrugged again. “I don’t know, babe. I just have a disease.”

“That’s OK, Mom,” she said. “That’s just the way God made you.”

Tears pricked the back of my eyelids, as I walked over and gave her another hug, tighter this time.

“That’s right, Poo,” I said. “And you know what? I love the way that God made you.”

Last time I lost my hair, I was bereft. It was devestating; I was forced to define my identity in ways I never expected. These days, I may not always know who I am or exactly where I’m going, but after listening to my daughter’s beautiful heart last night, I know exactly how to orient myself— exactly where to look when I need to find my True North.