MEMOIR first person

‘I miss
mascara
more than
anything’
Can you imagine life without hair? As a teenager, Emma
Beddington lost all hers (yes, all of it). Now 35, she confesses
she still hasn’t quite come to terms with it

‘I
photog r aph cl au dia jan k e

calculated recently that
I have been bald for 17 years.
Seventeen years? It seems
impossible. Seventeen of
my 35 years, almost half my
life, without any hair at all – no lashes,
brows, leg or arm hair, and certainly
no hair on my head.
It doesn’t seem that long. I can still
remember exactly how it felt to stand in
my boyfriend’s flat and, oddly detached,
survey the bedroom floor, every inch
coated with a thick layer of my
hair. I remember shaving off the
‘On good days, I’m optimistic:
and instead attacks them. Stress is often
cited as a trigger and I was certainly
stressed after a first undergraduate year at
Oxford, juggling a fraught long-distance
relationship and a demanding course.
Exhausted, I went to stay with my
boyfriend in France at the beginning of
the summer. Within a week, my hair was
coming out in handfuls. Every morning,
I would wake, with a distinct sense of
unreality, to see my pillow covered in hair.
Returning to Oxford two months later
dampen the immune response that
causes alopecia. The steroids made
me puffy and ravenous. I put on weight
and struggled miserably with a salt-free,
calorie-restricted diet to manage the
weight gain and high blood pressure,
decimating my self-esteem still further.
There was never any regrowth. Instead,
I became acutely bulimic, desperate to
control my weight if I could control
nothing else, and battling the effects
the steroids had on my appetite. I spent
a year alternating very restrictive
eating and occasional binges

at least I have smooth skin all

remaining straggly sections a
month later on holiday in Rome.
I remember buying my first wig
in desperation from Selfridges, the time, no rasp of leg stubble’
the salesgirls sympathetic, but at
a loss how to help. I finally chose a
shoulder-length strawberry blonde bob,
far removed from my real dark short crop
of a few months previously. I remember
the misery of losing my eyebrows and
lashes a few months later, and how much
more devastating that seemed than losing
the hair on my head. How odd your face
looks without that punctuation, how
painfully I missed mascara.
No-one knows quite what causes
alopecia, an immune disorder where the
body ceases to recognise hair follicles,
with a ginger wig, befuddled with
antidepressants, I was still in shock.
I never believed for a second, back
then, that it might be permanent. I recall
very clearly thinking, when my boyfriend
proposed to me a few years later, that
there was no way I would ever get married
bald, have children bald, live my life bald.
It seemed inconceivable. Apart from
anything else, I couldn’t imagine the
photos. I spent the first two years after
losing my hair in aggressive treatment
with high doses of steroids intended to
on junk food, followed by
purging, spending wretched
hours in college toilets.
With excellent, gentle therapy,
I managed to break the binge-
purge cycles, but my eating remained
restrictive for years. Unable to do anything
about my missing hair, I did everything
I could to feel as attractive, and as in
control, as I possibly could. Through my
finals and into my early years as a junior
lawyer, I ate rigidly, obsessively, spent
huge swathes of my salary on make-up
and clothes, exercised religiously, took
supplements, gave up alcohol.
I look back on that period with huge
regret. I don’t remember having much fun,
or ever allowing myself to kick back 7

111 Red / march 2008 Red / june 2010 281

first person
and relax. Instead, I recall lying
in bed every night, counting off
on my fingers how many different
types of fruit and vegetables
I had managed to eat that day. My
boyfriend loyally stuck with me
throughout, even though I can’t
have been any fun to live with.
Gradually, with better wigs
and skilful cosmetics, I began to
feel a bit better about myself. But
the real turning point came when,
aged 26, after nearly a year of
trying, I became ecstatically
‘Newly single, I don’t have
someone who knew me with
pregnant with my first child.
Somewhere in the desire to
conceive and the excitement
of becoming parents, the focus hair and loved me without’
shifted away from being bald.
I was pregnant, then a mother, with all
the new perspectives that brought. I don’t
know if I finally accepted my alopecia –
I’m not sure I ever will – but I certainly
had more important things to think about.
I
can say with all honesty that since
the birth of my two children, there
have been whole years when I have
barely had a conscious thought
about my baldness. In the past 10 years,
I have moved countries four times,
and seen friends and family deal with
illnesses far more devastating than
alopecia. My mother died in an accident
when I was pregnant with my second
child. In the great scheme of things,
baldness is pretty trivial.
Yes, it always remained a minor
sadness, but one I knew how to manage.
My children have always seen me without
hair and it barely registers with them,
except as something to show off to their
schoolfriends (“My mum can take her
hair off!” my eldest son brags, effectively
silencing the perennial, “My mum is better
than your mum” conversations). I have
excellent wigs that I always wear out of
the house, and most of the time in the
house, too; it’s how I feel comfortable.
I frequently get compliments on my
“haircut”, which I accept with childish
amusement. My hairdresser is always
urging me to go out without a wig, telling
me what a nicely shaped head I have, but
the kind of attention I would attract is not
something I crave. On top of that, it feels
282 Red / june 2010
CLOCKWISE
FROM ABOVE:
Emma on
holiday in Italy,
aged 20; aged
18, before she
lost her hair;
aged 20, in one
of her first wigs
uncomfortable being told how “brave” you
are when people mistakenly assume you
are in the middle of chemotherapy.
Things are changing, though. Last year,
I split up with my partner, the self-same
boyfriend of 17 years ago who watched
helplessly as I shed hair all over his flat.
I no longer have the security of a partner
who knew me with hair and loved me
without. Newly single, thinking about
dating and meeting new men, I find
alopecia is constantly in my mind. For the
first time in years, I find myself wondering
about seeking treatment again, even
though I know there is little chance
of success. All those long-suppressed
insecurities are bubbling to the surface.
O
f course, everyone who leaves
a long-term relationship
and starts dating again is
nervous and insecure; filled
with body anxieties. I feel all of that,
but for me, there’s an extra layer of
vulnerability and fear about dating without
hair. Could anyone find me attractive?
If I tell them about it straight away, will
they be put off? If I don’t, will it lead to
awkward situations? What do I do when
someone touches my “hair”? So far, I have
been too embarrassed to address the issue
like a grown-up, probably leading to some
serious confusion for my unfortunate
dates. At the moment, when someone tries
to brush my hair back from my face, stroke
my neck or cup my head in their hands, it
can go one of two ways: either I shy away
and try to redirect their hands, or, if I’m
feeling more relaxed, I just try to push
aside my anxieties, enjoy the moment,
tell myself there are worse things I could
be than bald. I have been too scared of
rejection to talk about it up front – but
it’s early days. I hope I find a better way.
Right now, I vacillate between hope and
fear. On bad days, I’m scared I’ll attach
myself like a limpet to the first person who
shows the slightest interest, grateful that
anyone could find a bald woman desirable.
On my good days, I’m optimistic – I’m
slim and okay-looking, and at least I have
smooth skin all the time. Not for me the
agony of a Brazilian, the rasp of leg stubble,
the misery of bad-hair days. Alopecia does
have some unexpected benefits.’
Emma’s alopecia heroes
● Sophie Thorpe works miracles
on thin, patchy, overplucked or
entirely missing eyebrows
(sophiethorpe.co.uk).
● Sue Renigan at Positively Hair
works with bespoke wigs that you
can swim, shower, even sleep in, if
you so desire. Instead of a traditional
make-up lindsay poole at time
mesh base, they use a thin silicone
cap, much more realistic in look and
feel (positivelyhair.co.uk).
● John Vial at Real Hair has been
cutting wigs that make me feel
human – and making me laugh
hysterically in the process – for
10 years (realhair.co.uk). e