Making Peace With My Hair in Midlife
I never felt pretty growing up. My hair, an unruly bundle of natural curls, made me feel awkward and unattractive around my peers who flaunted sleek and straight styles.
To make things worse, neither I nor my mother knew how to style my hair. Instead of working with my curl pattern, it was most often brushed out into some kind of submission, and it’s fair to say that it didn’t exactly elevate my appearance.
Back then, I yearned for what I considered “normal” hair and I struggled with my natural texture which was more of a burden than a blessing. I was also an introvert who was infinitely more comfortable reading books and spending time with animals than being in groups of people. My weird hair felt like a declaration of my outsider status.
In my teens, I found myself trying to tame my curls with every product and technique possible, convinced that fitting in would grant me the confidence I so desperately sought. I’d use hairspray and hard mousses or gels to try and straighten my hair, even though the end result was far from flattering, and never lasted more than a day. Less so if there was a hint of moisture in the air.
It wasn’t until years later, as trends shifted, that I began to appreciate the very hair I had once wished away.
Suddenly, my curls were celebrated, and as such they became a part of my identity that I felt able to embrace rather than hide. It seemed as though I had finally learned to love the very thing that had once made me feel so self-conscious.
2008 and 2018
But with the passage of time, the tables turned again.
In 2019, I began noticing that my hair was shedding more than usual. I wasn’t overly concerned at first, telling myself that it was probably a seasonal thing and not too much to worry about. But the shedding continued, and then it worsened.
By 2020 my hair was almost unrecognizable. My curls were limp and flat, lacking volume and unable to hold their shape. I’d wash my hair one day and by the next day it looked like a literal bird’s nest. I had no idea what was causing the change, but I noticed how much my confidence was impacted.
2020. Over-moizturized and crying out for protein.
Then, along came a pandemic. Confined to the house, I watched approximately 12,587 YouTube videos on how to revive my curls. I discovered that my hair was crying out for protein, and that the deep conditioning treatments I’d been slathering on a few times a week were too far moisturizing for my fine strands.
Suffice to say there were some interesting homemade concoctions taking place around that time, namely raw egg and yogurt hair masks. (Our bathroom smelled delightful, and my husband was thrilled.)
I also learned a lot about perimenopause and my shifting hormones. I realized that protein had been lacking in my diet as well as my hair products, especially as I’d experienced recent weight loss and had cut out a number of protein-rich food items.
Over the following months, I coaxed my curls back to life and they began to flourish. I felt great and my confidence returned.
2021. The thriving phase.
But towards the end of 2021, I began having balance issues and within a few weeks I began randomly vomiting. Initially it was thought that I had benign paroxysmal positional vertigo (BPPV) and I was treated with the Epley maneuver and given medication to help counteract the nausea.
Neither of these remedies worked. Eventually, I had an MRI that identified a mass on my brain. I was diagnosed with a hemangioblastoma, a benign brain tumor, and had to have an emergency craniotomy.
Before the surgery, I felt so sick that my hair was the last thing I was thinking of. Still, it was nice to be assured by my neurosurgeon that he would be conservative with the area at the back of my head that needed to be shaved as part of the surgery prep.
After the craniotomy, my recovery was slow and challenging. I was still vomiting and the residual nausea was very stubborn. But, remarkably, my hair was thriving. I felt terrible, but I took some comfort in the fact that I at least looked ok.
However, three months later, my hair started falling out in clumps. I’d mistakenly thought that I was in the clear once the surgery was over. But I hadn’t banked on the fact that it would take my body some time to process such a huge experience.
I tried not to care about the bald patches emerging on my scalp. I tried not to care about the texture of the limp and lifeless strands that were still hanging on.
But I did care.
Yes, I was beyond grateful to still be alive. I was thrilled to have had access to healthcare at such a critical time. I was lucky to have survived such a big surgery. And, it was also true that I felt depressed about my appearance. It was hard to look at myself in the mirror.
2022. After the craniotomy.
I wore a lot of hair scarves at that time, trying my best to hide the worst of my straggly strands. I made the best of it and did everything I could to nourish myself, in all the ways. Diet, movement, spiritual practices. A year and a few haircuts later, I finally felt as though I resembled me again.
In the summer of 2023, my husband and I took a trip to the west coast and my curls were looking better than ever. I received so many compliments from people that Leon jokingly began to refer to it as my comeback tour. My hair dramas were over.
2023. The Vegas Comeback Tour!
Only they weren’t.
At the end of 2024, we left our rented apartment in Queens to move to a little house in upstate New York.
I was overjoyed to be leaving the city behind. Much as I’ve always loved NYC, perimenopause had exacerbated the feelings of anxiety that I was experiencing, and I craved peace and space.
Still, the move was somewhat of an adjustment (even though I’ve moved 16 times, life definitely hits differently in perimenopause!) especially as we had some renovation work to tend to. But by the spring I was starting to feel more settled.
And then, once again, my hair started falling out. At first it wasn’t overly obvious, but within weeks I could see gaps where chunks were missing. It was especially noticeable when the light was behind me.
Since I now had some previous experience in hair shedding situations, I ran through what I thought might be possible culprits or contributors.
Stress? Possibly. But nothing particularly pressing. Lack of protein? Unlikely. I’d learned that lesson before and I was definitely incorporating enough protein into my diet. Hormones? Maybe. But I was on hormone replacement therapy and not having any other side effects.
It took me a few months to figure out that it was our water.
Our new home, nestled on top of a mountain in the woods, used water sourced from a well supply. And since we didn’t have a water-softening system in place, or a filter on our shower head, there were a number of minerals that were being deposited directly onto my hair every time I washed it.
In addition to this, I wasn’t using a shampoo that was specifically designed to remove this mineral build up, so I kept unknowingly adding to the damage until my hair was brittle and breaking off.
I was relieved to have identified the issue, but dismayed to once again be back in a bad hair phase.
Summer 2024. There are 6 weeks between these two images.
Each time I’d experienced hair loss or visible damage, I’d felt my confidence nosedive. Like many women, my hair felt woven into the fabric of my femininity and self-esteem. Especially as I’d long since believed my hair to be my only worthy physical attribute. I felt vulnerable and exposed, stripped of the one feature that I believed was my only real proximity to beauty.
After trying a few clarifying shampoos to little success, I was thrilled to discover the Malibu C Hard Water Wellness range (not an ad whatsoever but I’m happily sharing because this literally saved the hair I had left). But I was still left with a complete mess on my head.
In addition to the thin strands and brittle texture, I’d started to trial growing out my gray, so my roots were looking a little wild. I also had a reddish tinge to parts of my previously colored hair which was caused by discoloration from the well water. Hair scarves became a daily staple once more.
It took four months, one shower head filter, a toner treatment, and a couple of hair cuts to get me (sort of) back on track.
Which is where I am today.
December 2024
When I look in the mirror now, I’m still not 100% happy with how my hair looks. I can see the sparser areas immediately. The texture is coarser. I’m not crazy about the color. But, at age 50, I think I’m ready to start separating my self-worth from my good or bad hair phases.
And I know it’s possible because I’ve been able to do this with my body for some years now.
When I first began visibly aging in my mid-forties, I initially felt a sense of shame about “losing my looks”. But then I felt called to explore what was really at the root of my shame. That’s when I educated myself on what a culture of anti-aging is really designed to do, and how it impacts us. Once I had this awareness, the way I viewed my own aging body changed dramatically.
It’s been a harder journey with my hair because that was my One Good Feature. Or, at least, that’s the belief I’d spent most of adulthood reinforcing. Without good hair, what was I even worth?
Quite a lot, as it turns out.
My appearance has nothing to do with my worth. It isn’t related in any way to my creativity, my compassion, my sense of humor, my intellect, or the way I’m able to hold space for myself and those around me. It has absolutely zero impact on my ability to lead with empathy, forge a path forward, or leave a meaningful legacy.
While it’s not always easy to completely disentangle ourselves from societal conditioning, I truly believe it’s a journey that’s worthwhile embarking upon.
Who knows, my hair might begin to thrive again. Maybe I’ll even have another Vegas comeback tour! But I’m making peace with the fact that perhaps my midlife hair is going to be different than it was in my twenties or thirties. Maybe it’s not going to be quite as voluminous or bouncy. Maybe the coarse texture is here to stay. Maybe there will be more thinning or shedding.
I no longer want my identity to be so inextricably linked with my hair, or any part of my appearance, that I feel destabilized when things shift or change.
It doesn’t matter if it’s my hair, my skin, my weight, or my relationship. If I’m measuring myself, and criticizing myself, in a way that lacks kindness and compassion then perhaps I can finally use a phrase that I usually loathe: I’m too old for that.
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