I was addicted to hair transplant consultations

“No;” I guessed.

“But you ask!”

i got fired How wonderful, to be rejected, to be thought utterly insane by a cruel Russian woman in a lab coat! I was stuck. I scheduled my next free hair transplant consultation in Oklahoma City, where, again, I was told that I was fine, and also too young to have surgery, but that if I really wanted to do something, I should get palmetto pills and a laser comb. I immediately used my scholarship money to do just that. Consultations may be free, but that’s only because the bald person, already overwhelmed with stress, is supposed to make some big purchases.

When I got older and started making some money, I was finally accepted for a little transplant. The doctor, who looked like a doctor in a soap opera, told me I had made a smart investment. “Young now, and you can enjoy your hair for decades,” she told me. Pleasure, however, was not what awaited me. It seemed that “hair” was not the end goal of my obsession. It was the feeling of being proactive about a problem that I was looking for. To put out the fire would be to lose the job of managing it. His management kept oblivion at bay.

This continued until last summer, when my friend Rachel shared a screenshot of an email she had received from a PR firm representing EsteNove, a Turkish hair transplant clinic that had recently gained attention for distributing procedures to American influencers like skin care kits. Rachel, like me, works in the media and, like all my friends, was completely unaware of my troubled history with the hair loss prevention industry. I asked her to forward the email to me.

Within two weeks, I was working out the details of my trip to Istanbul in September, which included a plane flight, a stay at a nice hotel, and of course, a small hair transplant from my donor area to the crown of my head. Only one thing was required of me in return. It was the one thing I thought I would never do. But it was also the thing that, if I mustered the courage to do it, would finally set me free: I had to write about it. In other words, I had to tell absolutely everyone that I was getting a hair transplant.

I started telling my friends about my upcoming trip little by little, at first framing it as some kind of weird over-commitment to journalistic integrity on the subject of medical tourism: Well, I want the full experience. Then, after a few drinks, I would reveal that I had actually already had a transplant. Their eyes would briefly fly to my hairline. “When;” In 2021. “Where?” I would show them. “But…” they said confused, “you have hair”. I was euphoric.

The world became my waiting room at the hair transplant clinic. I threw myself a quinceañera inside. More specifically, I threw a Bald Party. I invited about 50 people to an apartment on the Lower East Side. Pizza, soft drinks and bald caps were provided. “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” added to playlist. I asked four of my writer friends to read aloud about hair, cosmetic surgery, or body anxiety. I read from a draft of this essay, allowing of course for the possibility that the actual process may affect the final product.

After my reading, I, Bald Belle, crowd-surfed on a tide of my guests’ sweet, sweet confusion. “Where are they going to put it?” asked one. “How will it work?” asked another. “Are you sure you need this?”