Dear Trichotillomania,

I hate you.

Let’s start with the name: Trich- that’s greek for hair, tillo- to pull, and mania, of course, is madness.

But I’m only mad at myself. I’ve given in once again to you.

Dear Trichotillomania,

I hate you.

You’ve taken my confidence, my sanity, my pride…. Oh, and my hair.

I’m just sitting in class, or watching tv, and before I know it, my fingers are entangled by auburn vines that choke my fingers until I shamefully shove the hair I’ve absentmindedly plucked into the front pocket of my bag with the rest of the evidence.

My fingers reach back to see what damage you’ve done, and they feel only my barren, pink, stinging scalp.

My dear Trich,

I FREAKING HATE YOU.

I hate you because now I’m losing my beauty, my femininity, my crowning glory… or at least that’s what society says.

You see, I’ve been taught since I was a tiny girl with little curls that princesses have long, flowing tresses of gold, ebony, amber, or mahogany. It blows majestically in the breeze and glistens in the sunshine, attracting brave, handsome princes from across the land.

Trich, don’t you see?

That princess can’t be me! I’m longing to be free, but it seems there’s no release from your seductive grip on my fingertips, again I slip, my scalp is stripped, my heart will skip at this hair I’ve ripped because

I don’t want to be bald…

Or maybe I do. Lately it’s hard to tell me from you.

And plus, a bald girl doesn’t have to do her hair in the morning.

Bald girl gets special permission to wear cute hats to school.

Bald girl gets plenty of sympathy.

But bald girl isn’t what society likes.

Which is weird because it was society that taught me to remove the ones that feel different.

Dear Trichotillomania,

Maybe it’s not YOU I hate.