Trichotillomaniac

Tricho-who? Most of you probably don’t know the extent of my compulsive tendencies. One day when I was 11 years old I went to the hairdresser. She commented on the fact that my hair has red in it and said it was pretty. And that’s where it all began…

“Huh,” I thought. I had never really thought about my hair before. Plus I couldn’t really see the red hairs unless I looked at them up close. So I sat cross-eyed in the living room staring at my hair and decided I wasn’t properly seeing the red and I would have to see it closer. I tugged on one and it came out. Indeed it was red. It was also pleasantly textured, unlike the rest of my boring blonde hairs. It was like Doritos – one did not suffice. Soon I was sifting through my hair and freeing each red one. It was strangely relieving. Most people are probably uncomfortable right now. (“What is wrong with this girl?” You whisper. Then you realize you’re whispering to the blog and you’re just as bad as an 11 year old who pulls her hair out). Shortly I had accumulated a small pile of hair on the floor next to me. It was trance-like: I quickly became proficient at selecting the perfect hair and ripping. In a few months I had a small patch on the top of my head that stuck up a full inch. The rest of my hair was normal. This looked pretty much like you’d picture it – like a small red afro, but not curly. It was becoming a slight problem. Sometimes I would apologize to the hairs. (Just one more, I told my hair. Your sacrifice is appreciated). Then I’d slide my thumbnail along each hair and release it like curling a ribbon to decorate a gift. It would zip gloriously into a tiny ball and then I would roll it between my fingers and toss it on the pile with the others.

Soon my parents began discovering my piles. I usually gathered them shamefully at the end of each trance and tossed them in the garbage, covering them with toilet paper so no one would find a giant hairball in the trashcan. “Honey,” said my mom one day, “What on earth are you doing?”

“Um,” I replied, “hold on,” as I discovered another red friend. “I’m just pulling out the red hairs so I can see them better.”

“Ah,” she said. (Because that makes sense, I could tell she was thinking). My family was used to my eccentricities. I knew what I was doing was a little extra weird though. It was just that when I looked in the mirror and a hair was frizzed and sticking out I had to rip it. I would get a nagging thought. (You won’t find one that nice again, a voice said. Not a voice like a hallucination. Just a little voice suggesting a hair holocaust). If I simply saw the hair but didn’t rip it something bad would happen I was pretty sure. I couldn’t leave the room until the urge was satisfied, or I would fail my math test or walk all the batters next game I pitched. My dad would get in a car accident. My brother would get eaten by a tiger that escaped from the zoo and ended up inexplicably in the woods behind our house. My mom would get lost somewhere on her way home from work because she’s directionally-challenged and never come home again. To prevent this from happening, all I had to do was yank out one perfect little hair, right?

By now the habit was devouring a fair amount of my time. If I had to contemplate how to graph f(x)=((2x+3)^2)-5 or how to write a paper on symbolism for more than two seconds, my obsession with locating and then yanking out hair would win me over. Good thing I had enough control over myself to simply stroke strands of hair innocently during class or in public. It eventually forced me to develop a small tic – moving my head from side to side rapidly. Since there was a bald spot in the back of my head by now and as it grew back it left an uneven ugly truncated patch of hair, I was self-conscious. I figured if I walked down the halls of the junior high turning my head back and forth really fast, no one would see the spot. I sat in the back of class or wore a ponytail to cover it. I used an abnormal quantity of hair gel. I wore gloves when I did my homework or read a book. I moved the garbage can across my bedroom floor so I’d have to stand up to toss away each hair. I told Wyeth to punch me whenever he saw my ripping hair. My mom started going around saying, "Save the hairs!!" every time she caught me. (Really!)

At about age 14 I wondered if the internet had any answers. I googled “hair pulling” (was there Google back in the day? If not, I browsed the worldwide web with some sketchy old search engine). I frantically ripped hairs as I waited for our dial-up modem to make loud and discouraging noises. I had begun to rip when I was nervous, on road trips, in the bathroom, or simply thinking about stuff.

It turns out there are a bunch of weirdos like me out there. This compulsion is labeled trichotillomania. Check it out:

http://kidshealth.org/teen/your_mind/mental_health/trichotillomania.html

I still pull hairs all the time, but usually not to that severity…I have honed my self-control so that I can still wear my hair down, but only with a fair amount of product in it and a hair dryer. I love ponytail. Consider yourselves privileged to read this blog; only my family and a few people who I trusted who wanted to know why I shaved my head five times between the ages of 17 and 22 know. I had come across a story on the internet about the parents of an eight year old with trichotillomania who shaved her head in an attempt to squelch her “habit”. Shaving your head doesn’t work in the long run, by the way. But it’s a great way to make people question your sexuality or whether you have cancer.