In the past week alone, I’ve gone to great lengths to combat my hair loss—microneedling my hairline, wearing a four-pound red-light helmet while catching up on emails, and even dabbing mahogany makeup onto my scalp. All in the name of growing—or at least appearing to grow—more hair. I’m not alone in my efforts. The global hair-restoration market, including treatments such as oral medications, laser devices, and hair-growth shampoos, reached a staggering $8.77 billion in 2023, according to market research firm Grand View Research.
As a beauty journalist, I’m adept at recommending the best mascaras, offering solutions for melasma, and providing advice on managing breakouts. But when it comes to hair thinning, I find myself just as confused as anyone else. Like many, I’ve been captivated by the before-and-after ads flooding my Instagram feed, tried various supplements, and used expensive hair care products, only to find myself still searching for a solution.
The catalyst for my personal investment in hair restoration treatments came from a photo I stumbled upon while browsing through images from my husband’s birthday party. Among the crowd was a woman in a dress that looked remarkably like mine. The angle was overhead, and as I focused in, I realized with a shock—it was me. The widening of my part, which had been slowly advancing over the past year, was suddenly undeniable. What once could be concealed with a bit of dark brown makeup was now glaringly visible. My temples were also receding, revealing distinct patches of scalp.
What had happened to my once thick, shiny hair? Was this a medical issue? Should I be concerned about my thyroid? I remembered my grandmother’s sparse hair in her later years, and I wondered if this was simply my genetic fate at play. At 45, I began to grapple with the possibility that I might be experiencing early signs of a condition that had only been a distant thought until now.
This was a tough moment for me. Growing up, even when I was teased for my buck teeth and glasses, I was always proud of my hair. It was thick, shiny, and reliable—a trait that garnered compliments and bolstered my confidence. A good hair day was the one thing I could always count on, no matter what else the day had in store.
While a receding hairline might seem like a minor issue in the grand scheme of life, the emotional impact of hair loss can be profound. According to Greta Angert, a Beverly Hills-based psychotherapist and body-image expert, “Hair loss can be a devastating experience. It can affect a woman’s self-esteem, sense of beauty, femininity, and desirability.” In fact, research has shown a significant link between hair loss and mental health challenges, including depression and anxiety, especially among women. “It can be overwhelming and debilitating,” Angert adds, “leading some women to socially isolate.”
Hair has long been seen as a symbol of beauty, particularly for women. From Botticelli’s iconic Venus to the fairy tale figure of Rapunzel, history has held up healthy, lustrous hair as an ideal of femininity. This cultural pressure is nothing new; the phrase “crowning glory,” found in the Bible in Corinthians, underscores the long-held association between a woman’s hair and her sense of beauty: “If a woman has long hair, it is a glory unto her.”
Despite my desire to reject these age-old beauty standards, seeing my own hair thinning was a deeply emotional experience. It was time to take action, and I set out to unravel the mysteries of hair loss and explore the latest research. After speaking with doctors and consulting hair specialists, I began to find some clarity and answers to the many questions I had been asking.
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