The most awkward thing about hair loss often isn’t the person staring back in the mirror—it’s the reactions from the outside world.
There’s that moment when you’re washing your hair and notice a clump of black strands clogging the drain. Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly run your fingers through your wet hair, trying to confirm your hairline is still where it belongs. As the hair dryer’s hot air sweeps over your head, the part in your hair seems to grow wider, like a river slowly expanding its banks.
But the real awkwardness lies elsewhere.
At a school reunion once, an old friend I hadn’t seen in years raised a hand to greet me, but their gaze paused for just two seconds on the top of my head before quickly looking away. That pause was so brief you could pretend it never happened; yet it was long enough to remind me of a group photo ten years ago when my bangs could still cover half my forehead. Later, when it was time for another group photo and someone joked, “Front row, squat down; back row, stand tall,” I quietly moved to the very back—not to make my face look smaller, but out of fear that the person in front of me would block the light shining on my head.
Even more awkward is being mistaken for someone a generation older. Once, I gave up my seat on the subway to a mother carrying a child. The mother told the kid, “Say thank you, Uncle.” But then she quickly corrected herself: “Call him Grandpa.” I was in my early thirties at the time; the kid was about four or five.
Barbershops are another minefield. Barbers always love to ask, “How would you like it cut today?” Every time, I try to act nonchalant and say, “Just thin it out a bit.” Deep down, though, I know there’s not much left to thin. Once, I got a new barber who kept sizing up my head with a comb, hesitating. Finally, he blurted out, “Buddy, how about we try shaving the sides short and leaving a bit more on top?” I knew what he was really saying was, “Let me help you cover that up.”
The most helpless moments are during meetings when the light fixture is directly above my head. A colleague takes a photo and posts it in the work group chat. In the picture, the top of my head is gleaming like a light bulb. Everyone else discusses the meeting content, but I’m staring at that photo, wondering if I can somehow quietly delete the message from the group.
Hair loss—it’s not a major issue, but it’s not trivial either. It doesn’t affect your ability to eat or sleep, nor does it hinder your work or ability to make a living. But it hits you in those (unexpected) moments, a sudden reminder that some things, once gone, are truly gone for good.