Standing up at the front of the class, I peered out at my classmates.
Aged eight, I was a confident little girl, but couldn't help feeling slightly nervous.
Taking a deep breath, I said, 'I have alopecia. My hair might fall out.' A few weeks before, my mum, Pat, had taken me to a dermatologist after discovering a bald patch, the size of a 20-cent piece, on the crown of my head.
Officially diagnosing me, the specialist was unable to explain why I had the condition. I had no family history and I wasn't experiencing stress, which can be a trigger.
'You might lose patches or all your hair might fall out, it's hard to say,' he said, prescribing a steroid ointment to slow the progress.
But within eight weeks of my diagnosis, my thick, luscious strawberry blonde hair had all fallen out.
It was traumatic, as clumps fell out on my pillow, in the shower and even into my food.
'I don't want to lose my hair,' I sobbed to Mum.
'It'll be okay, darl',' she soothed.
Out in public, everyone stared at me. Most people presumed I was sick with cancer.
At school I took it in my stride at first. But that all changed when I started high school. Suddenly, it was all about looks.
My mates avoided inviting me to sleepovers, as they spent the evening braiding each other's hair.
I felt like an outcast.
My nan, Margaret, made me crochet hats which I wore 24/7.
I felt safe under the hats.
They were my armour.
At times, tiny tufts of hair would appear and I'd get excited, but then they'd fall out too.
I also lost my lashes and brows, but luckily they both grew back.
This story is from the September 2022 edition of That's Life Magazines.
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This story is from the September 2022 edition of That's Life Magazines.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
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