Now, before anyone accuses me of being fixated on aging, I’d just like to say, “I’m not doing it on purpose.” Yes, I know this was also the subject just a few weeks ago. It’s just that life keeps sending me unsolicited reminders. I’m not obsessed – I’m under siege.
Hair – women’s eternal frenemy.
Hair isn’t just dead protein. It’s a living part of our identity, our mood, and how it’s cooperating or misbehaving can make or break our day. It’s strange and quite sad, to realize how much influence those fragile strands have over how we feel. That last glance in the mirror sets the stage for how we carry ourselves throughout our day.
When it’s long, we want it short. When it’s short, we want it long. When it’s straight we want it curly. When we’ve been blessed with natural curl, we straighten it. When it turns gray, we color it. When we decide to embrace the gray, it lasts about 3 months before we’re sprinting back to our favorite hairdresser.
My hair has done all the above. But now I’ve got a new one to add to the list: breakage. For the past year, I’ve noticed these rebellious short hairs around my face. Given the many years I’ve worn my hair long, there’s no logical reason for this fringe unless aging comes with its own built-in wind chimes. And when the wind whips those hairs onto my face like a low-budget shampoo commercial gone wrong, it drives me crazy.
Naturally, I had to find a diagnosis for the hair thinning and breakage I’ve been experiencing, along with all the other symptoms I was having. It just felt irresponsible not to. Brittle hair, thinning eyebrows, dry skin, achy joints, sugar cravings, weight gain, droopy eyelids and the worst of all – the overwhelming sleepiness. I’ve been falling asleep the moment I close my eyes. I’ve never been that person. Tossing and turning has always been my nightly cardio. Naps? Not me. But lately, driving anywhere over 30 minutes feels like a hostage situation with my eyelids. I’m one yawn away from being a hazard on the road.
My husband, tired of hearing me diagnose myself, and because I was due for my yearly anyway, ordered bloodwork to be done at my earliest convenience. The next morning seemed convenient.
I drove off early as I was fasting, and my morning coffee was calling my name. A few days later I received the report in the mail. Before I even opened the envelope, I was preparing for my new life as a daily pill popper. I was convinced my Free T-4 and TSH levels would be elevated, confirming what I’d suspected all along: hypothyroidism. Finally, a diagnosis to match my spreadsheet of symptoms.
The verdict was in. My thyroid panel couldn’t have been more normal. Right smack dab in the middle of the range.
So now what do I blame for all those symptoms? Every single one of those symptoms, even droopy eyelids could’ve been pinned on a lazy thyroid refusing to do the job it was created for. I honestly didn’t want the diagnosis, but I did want the explanation. It would have been treatable. It would have given me a prescription and a purpose. Instead, I got a clean bill of health as far as the bloodwork anyway, and a pile of mystery symptoms that are apparently due to that 3-letter word… AGE.
I’m a person who likes to make things up to help me cope and sleep better at night – although lately, that hasn’t been a problem. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do with this subject.
I wasn’t sure how I was going to spin this into something funny. Hair loss, mystery symptoms, and the betrayal of my own follicles don’t exactly scream comedy. But then, like a beacon of emotional retail therapy, I happened upon eBay. I promise, this will all tie in – stick with me.
I was hunting for a painted porcelain dresser tray – something pretty, something delicate and preferably in shades of blues. I found one that included a tray and 2 trinket boxes. One had a hole in the lid. I’d seen them before but never questioned the purpose of the hole. And because my mom is no longer around to educate me about those random things, I turned to the next best thing – Google.
Turns out it’s called a “hair receiver.” In the 1800’s, Victorian women would clean the hair out of their brushes, roll it into a ball, and tuck it into this dainty little pot. They were resourceful. They repurposed it. They’d then stuff the hair into small bags called “ratts,” and use them to poof up areas in their hairstyles that needed some extra poofing. I suppose that’s why we call backcombing “ratting?” I’m starting to connect dots I didn’t know existed.
Some hair was used to make jewelry. Oh darn, so sorry to see that ritual go. I had to find some examples to curb my curiosity. Below are two examples of jewelry from the Victorian era. Wearing a brooch made from the hair of the newly deceased, especially that of a dear relative, was a symbol of love and remembrance.
The brooch on the left above is a mere $395 on eBay. While I understand that in the Victorian era, wearing a brooch made from a decease relatives hair was ceremonious, who in their right mind today, would pay nearly $400 for a brooch that screams, “I contain the emotional residue of someone named Mildred who died of typhoid in 1873?” That’s not jewelry, it’s haunted artifact. Does it come with sage and a séance starter kit?
Some of the human hair collected went into making pin cushions. Apparently human hair was softer than feathers and the natural oils helped the pins glide in easier. Honestly, I’m impressed. These women were DIY queens before it was cool.
With shorter hairstyles coming into fashion in the 20th century, hair receivers fell out of fashion. But I love the concept of making something out of nothing.
As I sit on the edge of my bathtub, glancing down at all the dark long hairs on my floor, giving me the inspiration for this blog, I realize I can’t blame my husband. I own most of them, or at least I did.
So here’s my plan: I stopped typing long enough to open my eBay window and bought the trinkets. I’m going to gather my fallen strands day after day, week after week, and pretend my goal is to fill that trinket box. Reverse psychology, baby! Maybe the hair will stop falling out just to spite me.
What will I do with the hair? No plans to poof up any new future hairdos and I’m not going to stuff any pin cushions with it. Although the idea of cramming it into a voodoo doll and poking it with pins is deeply enticing.
Instead, I’m going to use the hair for something far more emotionally advanced: guilt-tripping my follicles into behaving. I’ll collect it strand by strand, place it lovingly in the pretty blue trinket box and whisper, “Look what you’ve done!”
Now raise your favorite cocktail and let’s toast: “To the strands we’ve lost, the ones we’ve colored, curled, cursed and collected.
To the Victorian women who turned breakage into bouffants and bald spots into brooches.
To the modern-day mystics who sit on the edges of bathtubs, attempting to find the humor in the horror of it all.
May our hair be strong, our thyroids be boring, and our eBay finds be oddly therapeutic.
And if all else fails – may we at least have a pretty, little trinket box to stuff our feelings into it.
To my fellow fringe warriors – “CHEERS!”
