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Trichotillomania

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I follow the receptionist through the turquoise and white blowout bar past the counter where women perch sipping Bellinis while their hair is dying and their nails are drying. She seats me at a makeshift station set up in a private back room. This is where they serve women whose religion doesn’t allow men to see their hair. My stylist, Kat, does not look alarmed when I remove my wig and shove it into my handbag.

I pull out bobby pins and shake my long hair down my back as Kat says, “We’ll do your color first. What were you thinking?” Continue reading