We are our own worst critics. Join Emma Henry ’25 as she discusses her journey with trichotillomania, a compulsive hair-pulling disorder.

I have been in a fierce battle with my hair for as long as I can remember. Together, we have performed a cyclical dance of tearing each other apart and piecing ourselves back together year after year for over a decade. I have been incredibly open about our feud for the past five years, but I’ve never written about it for an audience of strangers until now. 

I have a disorder called trichotillomania (trich for short). Trich is classified under the umbrella term of Body-Focused Repetitive Behaviors and describes the irresistible compulsion to pull out one’s own hair. According to the TLC Foundation for BFRBs, around 1 in 50 people may experience trich in their lifetime — aren’t I lucky? I was diagnosed with trich when I was about eight years old after my parents confronted me about noticeable balding and thinning patches of hair on my head. At the time, I was so afraid of what I was doing to myself that I feigned complete ignorance. This led to a series of doctor’s appointments that finally resulted in a confession. I was the culprit.  

The only way to describe both my family’s and my emotions after receiving an official diagnosis was fright with a sprinkle of relief. My diagnosis had no treatment other than various kinds of therapy. Trich was something we had never heard of before, and I’m sure my parents were not only worried about how I felt but also how other people might treat me. It’s hard enough for young girls to navigate adolescent life, let alone without a full head of hair. 

Many women see their hair as a defining aspect of their femininity, and I can’t blame them for that. For me, it is not important to dwell on the minutiae of trich as a disorder; instead, I hope to share what I have learned as a woman who lacks much of her hair and as a person who hopes to inspire conversations about mental health.

A brief overview of my childhood with trich includes a closet full of bandanas, headbands, and hats. I went through three therapists before meeting my current one, and I probably tried every strategy in the book to curb my hair-pulling. When I was about nine, I began wearing a custom hairpiece after finding a salon that specialized in hair restoration near my hometown in Pennsylvania. Love and Hair Peace was — and still is — a sanctuary for people suffering from all kinds of hair loss. Cassie Angelucci, the salon’s fearless founder and head stylist, has watched me grow into who I am today, and Ronnie Connelly, my current stylist, consistently inspires me to laugh through life and reminds me to be gentle with myself.

Finally, we’ve reached the big theme: being gentle. It has taken me over a decade to narrow down a single statement that describes everything I have ever wanted to say to my brain, and that is what I’ve come up with. My dad always tells me that I am my own worst critic, and he could not be more correct. I have avoided telling new friends and significant others about my hair loss until it is absolutely necessary, due to my fear of judgment and criticism.

I do, however, pride myself on being somewhat of an open book on social media. I have often talked about my experiences with trich on Instagram, but the reality of confronting it in person is something I am still trying to cope with. I will sit here and tell you everything I know about scalp health and hair growth, but I am terrified of anyone seeing my hair in its natural state. To me, this circles back to my battle with expressing femininity and the anger I have toward my brain.

I won’t lie — I’ve had countless nights where I’ve sobbed into pillows and screamed into the void because of the damage my hair has experienced. Sometimes, I still cry after I shower when I see the impact of my trich head-on. I’m sure if you sift through my bookshelves, you will find old journals making clear how much I hate the lack of control I experience and the way it feels as if my brain has hijacked my hands. My trich has manifested as what feels like a separate entity in my head, something that pulls the strings without asking me first. I am still angry, and I am still sad that my memories of childhood are always a little bit tainted with an obsession over my hair and the experience of clawing the damage off my bedroom floor. I viscerally remember the fear of people seeing me without a headband and the panic of covering up thinning patches of hair however I could. 

However, what I have realized is that trich might be with me forever. A lot of people have tried to tell me that it’s not a part of me, but I think it might be, and that’s okay. I have learned so much from experiencing hair loss at a young age, and I am continuing to grow every single day. If I cannot live without trich being a part of my life, I might as well learn to be kind to it, and hopefully, it learns to be kind to me too. I have met amazing people, had healing experiences that culminated in healthy hair growth and mental stability, and become an advocate for destigmatizing BFRBs. Above all, I am learning that my beauty is not defined by the hair on my head.

For me, trich has increased the ways I am grateful. Of course, I will always wish I had learned these lessons in another way, but life goes on. I laugh, cry, and experience beautiful emotions. I make room for myself to be happy and proud of how far I have come. I try to no longer define my self-worth by what is on my head. I celebrate small accomplishments, and I take care of myself. I am gentle. 

I am gentle because I am tired of hating myself for something that I have no control over. I hope to be an advocate not only for redefining the way we see others but also for improving how we see ourselves. I don’t want to spread the message that being sad and angry with your brain is unacceptable, because I feel that way all the time. I do believe though that we are always growing. We are in a relationship with ourselves as much as we are with other people, and sometimes, there are a lot of bumps in the road.

I hope that people find communities in which they feel loved, regardless of the things they may feel ashamed or self-conscious about. I hope that I can wake up every day and know that no matter how angry I am at what is on my head, I am grateful to be breathing and surrounded by people who love me no matter how much I obsess over my hair. Learning to be gentle with myself has been one of the most challenging, yet rewarding, mental journeys of my life.

Of course, this piece would be incomplete without mentioning the support of my family — for every appointment, bedtime cry, and hug, I am forever grateful. When I forget to be gentle with myself, they remind me.