Every night before firing up an episode of Love Island, I’d stand in front of the mirror and part my hair in five different paths, creating channels for the foam of Minoxidil. Initially, I’d used an expensive serum ordered from one of the semi-helpful, semi-predatory online menopause-product companies that have cropped up to fill the void of care. The liquid would dry into a greasy gunk that I’d brush out the next morning. It would’ve made sense to start showering every day, in the morning, but hair loss already owned a big piece of me; I was reluctant to give it scheduling rights as well.
On the other hand, foam Minoxidil was not only cheaper and available locally, it also absorbed quickly and invisibly. Plus, I could pretend I was spraying Redi-Whip onto the strawberry pie of my head, which lightened the tedious nightly ritual.
After a few months, I could see new growth in the form of baby hairs along my temples. Unfortunately, despite bloodwork indicating my body was dodging the most common side of effect of Spironolactone (low potassium), the drug continued to prove tricky – when I’d get horizontal at the end of the day, the muscles in my feet and legs cramped in a weird disco of thumps and rhythms, usually causing me to leap out of my carefully constructed duvet nest and hammer out the beat of “Stayin’ Alive” next to the bed. The problem was so painful and persistent that I became an internet sleuth, researching causes of foot cramps – aha! low sodium – aha! aha! which Spironolactone is also known to cause. I looked at my recent bloodwork numbers again and compared them against previous blood panels. Ahhhhhh. I’d been so focused on the potassium number that I hadn’t paid attention to the sodium, which had dropped significantly. Okay, so I needed electrolytes, and Dr. Internet pointed out that I didn’t need to buy fancy brand names when I could make my own.
As my PCP told me during my next annual visit, when I asked her if ingesting 2500 mg of dissolved Celtic Salt every day, which was the strategy I’d developed to battle the cramping, was ill advised, “No, it’s fine, if you’re drinking a lot of water, too. Spironolactone is a diuretic. It’s hard on the kidneys.”
Over the months, with all the exhausting iterations of loss, confusion, and dismay, my internal turmoil solidified into a single chirring question: At what cost was I chasing a former version of myself?
Something had to give, yet I remained intransigent about the MHT. I’d pushed, cried, begged for referrals to get those hormones; I was fully in thrall to the sunk cost, even if it meant every last hair left my skull. I’d rather be 80 and bald than 60, thick-haired, and fracturing every time I tripped and hit a bone.
After yet another check-in with my cousin’s wife – as it turned out, she’d been shedding hair, too, but having seen a hair-loss specialist at a dermatology clinic, she was using a finasteride shampoo and red-light therapy. After months of distress and pursuit of solutions, her hair fall had slowed. I didn’t know it yet, but within a few months, I, too, would visit that hair-loss specialist and emerge with a new plan that would make the best possible difference: no more Spironolactone, no more topical minoxidil; instead, I’d switch to once-daily oral minoxidil, a medication which would, at long last, stop the shed.
Before reaching the point of scheduling yet another appointment with yet another specialist, my brain needed to sit with the options. Feeling defeated, I nevertheless stuck to the nightly ritual of rubbing foam into my scalp and swallowing a pill of Spironolactone, trying not to tally a total of the products and medications that had entered my life the previous months.
On the day I visited CVS to replenish my supply of topical Minoxidil, I might have walked out when I saw the stuff was kept under lock and key. Buzz a worker? To free the 2% women’s Hair Regrowth Treatment from its plexiglass prison? I’d happily drive to three more stores if it meant I could pluck the product off the shelf without an interlocutor.
However. A big tag next to a two-pack announced a deal I couldn’t bypass: two cans for $40 instead of $56? Okay. Fine. Grumpily, I rang the call button.
I waited. And waited. Again, I pushed the button.
Eventually, a young woman with long black extensions and long black fingernails walked toward me, fumbling for the correct key to unlock the case.
When I pointed at what I wanted, I saw her interest rise.
“So, have you used this stuff before?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’ve been using it for a few months. It really does seem to spur hair growth, so I’m sticking with it.”
“Huh. I’m really curious about it. My hair – “ she gestured toward the mix of raven-colored natural and fake hair on her head – “has been falling out like crazy for at least a year. I feel embarrassed to leave my house. But I don’t know what to do.”
There was a plaintive ache in her voice. I felt that ache down to my toes.
“It’s really hard, isn’t it? Like, our hair is so much more than dead stuff that keeps our skulls warm, right? It’s so important to how we feel about ourselves. I’m sorry you’re going through this. And I would say that I’m seeing good changes with this stuff.” I gestured toward the cans of foam, on the cusp of liberation from the cabinet.
“Ohhh, that’s helpful to know. And this price right now can’t be beat. Maybe I should get a pack, too, and try it. I’m just so tired of feeling so – ” she waved her hands around her body while shrugging.
“God, I feel that. I know why my hair is falling out, and it’s due to hormones I’m taking for menopause. But you’re young, so watching your hair fall out has got to be even more devastating.”
“It’s the worst. It’s like I was just starting to feel like I might be an okay person, but now I don’t even know what I am. I don’t know what’s going on.”
At this point, she’d handed me the bundle of cans, and we were making our way to the front of the store to the cash register.
“I mean, you might want to see a doctor about what’s going on in your body that’s causing the hair loss; it can be caused by all sorts of things – stress or a big crisis, or nutrition, or something with your hormones – so it would probably be good to talk to someone about it.” As I spoke, I knew full well the likelihood of this person having health insurance or a primary physician was minute. I could see that her life had always been, might always be, one of coping without the aid of social systems, of clawing her way to “okay” through the capricious support of friends, family, and her own moxie.
So I added: “It can be hard to get in to see a doctor, though, but if you can, there are some oral medications you can take in addition to using this stuff on your scalp every night. That said, it can take multiple appointments and doctors to get those figured out. If you can do that, the 1-2 punch of a medication plus foam on your head might make a difference for you. But if not, and you decide to try just this topical minoxidil, keep in mind that once you start using it, you have to keep using it, or else the new-growth hair will fall out.”
“Ohh, that’s good to know!” Her eyebrows raised. “I’m really tempted to try it. Beneath all this – ” she pointed to her head with a long, onyx nail – “I don’t actually have much real hair left, so it’s not like there’s much to lose. And the price on this is so good right now.” The scanner in her hand beeped as she rang up my purchase.
While we waited for two feet of paper to pump out of the receipt machine, I offered one last insider tip: “If you try it, the internet told me the best strategy for application. Make five parts in your scalp, and basically spray the foam down the line of each part before massaging it into the surrounding area. Then let it dry before bed. You can brush or wash it out the next morning. Within a few weeks, you’ll see new little hairs popping out. It’s like a surprise party you actually want to be at.”
I could see her brain taking in this information, creating a mental image of herself engaging in this nightly ritual, doing something, anything, to fight for herself in the face of slow, devastating loss. A smile cracked through the heavy make-up she wore to mask her soft realness from the world.
“Got it! Thank you so much. I haven’t really talked about this to anyone before. You made me feel better. If I do try it, I’ll keep you posted if I see you in here again.”
“For sure, I totally want to know if you try it and see any change! I swear, if it weren’t for random chats with other women, I wouldn’t know anything about what’s going on with my own body. All we’ve got is each other, right?”
A fleeting stillness settled over her. The scanner in one hand, a crumple of receipt in the other, her long black extensions snaking around the nametag on her chest, she paused, and her guarded face opened for the quickest of breaths.
“Yeah, that’s right,” she exhaled. “That’s all we’ve got. Each other.”
Fin
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