In a few days, I will be a bald woman.
Not by choice, but by necessity. I have been slowly losing my hair for a couple of decades. So now, days away from “the shave,” I feel mostly ready (whatever that means) and a little giddy at the idea of being free from the consistent angst of losing hair.
Yet as much as I have prepared for what is, for me, a big change in appearance—like New York Times journalist Elizabeth Egan, who wrote “Lessons, Big and Small, From Growing Out My Gray”—I have my worries.
I worry about people thinking I have cancer and navigating the pity in their eyes. I worry about my boyfriend’s adorable 3-year-old daughter being confused or scared of me. I worry that my boyfriend will no longer find me attractive. I worry about having to explain to people why I am a bald woman so often that I may feel compelled to just work it into introductions, “Hi, I’m Amber. I am bald because I have alopecia, which is just a fancy word for baldness. What’s your name?” I worry about the descriptors people use for me going from “Amber with the funky haircut” to “bald-headed Amber.” I worry that I won’t feel feminine or beautiful.
My biggest worry? That people will stop hiring me.
As my appearance deviates from what people consider to be “normal,” I wonder if doing my fairly visible and already challenging job will become harder because of how people will receive my new appearance. We already know that “lookism” impacts women at work no matter how they present themselves. And an older German study found that bald job candidates are twice as likely to be rejected.
My concerns are not without merit. Over the past couple of months as I have shared with friends, “That head shave I have been talking about for the last few years? Well, it’s happening in a few weeks,” I have gotten a series of personally frustrating responses.
“You mean just like really low bald?” No, I mean Mr. Clean bald. I am losing hair, so a low cut will just show more that I am balding. It’s gonna be gone, gone. Which usually leads to this next sentiment:
“Well, if you don’t like it, you can just grow it back.” Only, I cannot. My haircut is essentially a strategic comb-over hiding an ever-expanding almost baby-bottom bald scalp underneath. I mean I get it—people love my hair. Even strangers regularly compliment me on it, so folks usually don’t believe that I am balding in the middle until I share a shocking photo of what my hair looks like underneath the style. After they process their version of courteous shock, what usually follows is a remark like “You hide it so well, why not keep doing that?” Sure. But once I can’t?
There are the “Well, you can just wear a wig” people. I have no problem with wigs, but honestly, a hat of hair? It just isn’t for me. So when a wig is suggested, I usually say, “Imagine me with a wig.” Then I wait for the inevitable awkward discomfort to show up on their faces before adding, “Yeah, it doesn’t feel right to me either.”
More recently I hear, “Well, you can just get a hair transplant.” As notable Black folks like Van Lathan have been open about their success with the procedure, folks assume it is just a matter of signing up and paying the fee. But not everyone is a candidate for a hair transplant. I have a type of scarring hair loss where my immune system mistakenly attacks hair follicles in my central scalp. The scarring means I am not a candidate for a hair transplant because my scalp will attack those transplanted follicles too.
While I appreciate the well-meaning care intended in each of these conversations with friends and loved ones, they reinforce my concerns about being hired. Because while they aren’t outright saying it, the consistent theme across all the comments and recommendations I hear most often is, “Cover it up.”
And if my friends want it covered, what does that mean for the whole of society that doesn’t care about me? What does it mean for my opportunities as a self-employed, somewhat visible business owner? What does it mean if I have to go looking for a job with a company? I don’t know how much having no hair changes any of that for me, but if the responses of people who love me are any indication, I am right to be worried.
A quick scroll through the internet or Instagram for alopecia can compound my angst. Any number of search combinations produces pages of results with women grieving about learning to embrace their hair loss, sharing what they have tried that is a working miracle, or sharing horror stories of the remarks and recommendations that strangers have made to them. I am not looking forward to the shift from “I love your hair” to explaining I am not interested in any so-called hair miracles. I have tried more than I can count over the last 22 years.
Thankfully amid the copious sad online hair-loss results, there are a few bright spots. My favorite right now is a Black girl from Detroit (like me), Nikki Vontaya. I love that she is just living her whole life and happens to share the bald part on her incredible journey.
Hair sometimes seems like such a small thing, but it absolutely shapes how we experience one another. Appearances can inform whole lives, and shape relationships and the way we work. Secretly, I have asked my partner more times than I care to admit if he will still love me with no hair. It’s a small thing but the impact can be far-reaching.
Yet, greater than all of the worries is the desire just to cut it off already. To work out without wondering if the powder I put in my hair will run down the side of my face during hot Pilates à la Rudy Giuliani. To not have to travel with a collection of hair products and tools to hide my baldness. To not feel a small cringe when people say “I love your hair” and I have to eke out another smiling “Thank you” while fighting the urge to tell the kind stranger that I love my hair too but I am cutting it off because I am balding.
Besides the worries, I am excited most of the time. I can’t wait to free myself of the hair I love but have been living my life around. I don’t desire to be a woman bound by anything, and while I know the deep authenticity I crave isn’t how everyone wants to live, my soul screams out for it. I don’t want to cover it up unless it’s an occasional fun choice and not because I am hiding. I hope to love it. I know several bald women who are fine, look incredibly beautiful, and live life like bald is a vibe. I am hoping that is how I feel about it. I am making sure to also have grace for myself if my initial reaction is something vastly different.
So if you see me out in the world in the coming weeks, with my head out or covered, I hope you too can grant me a little grace. I will likely still be working through embracing and celebrating the complexity of adding another element to the parts of my appearance that make my life really hard at times. Black. Woman. And now bald.
