If there is something that my sisters, my mom, my maternal relatives and I have in common,it's trichotillomania - the pathological impulse to constantly pull out or rub one's hair.
When all of us are seated in the living room or are in a gathering, our respective hands would go up to our respective heads and systematically pull out our respective hair. It's a family pastime from the oldest aunt to the youngest cousin, who is reportedly wearing a bandana to conceal her bald patches.
It was during the summer vacation of my sophomore year in high school that a strand of hair was first pulled out from my scalp. On a warm afternoon, with the two o'clock sun streaming through the bedroom window, my sister ,Anne, had a strange look in her eyes. She was staring at my then thick, black and shiny hair and declared that I had a strand of 'dead' hair. She reached out and started caressing the curly and damaged strand. After a while, she asked me if she could pull it out. I was absorbed in a novel about a very poor and atheist girl who went from rags to ultra rich and had several children from different men, and just nodded my consent.
A small sharp sting followed by a ticklish itch radiated throughout my scalp from the spot where the strand of hair was once rooted. That small sensation triggered something deep inside my DNA and changed the relationship between my head and my left hand forever.
It seems that my trichotillomania is connected to the state of my mental activity. Whenever I am reading, watching or listening to something interesting and engrossing, my left hand would languidly stroke each and every one of my hair strands and pull out the severely damaged ones. But, whenever I am answering test questions, writing a report, brainstorming, beating a deadline or in any stressful situation, my right hand would join the frenzy and mercilessly hasten the denudation of my hair.
The four years in law school and ,especially, the BAR examinations are responsible for the state of my scalp today. I must have left at least three strands in each of my examination notebooks as a souvenir for the BAR examiners. Still, some of my hair have lain on Lasallian floors and are probably getting acquainted with the trash in the Payatas dumpsite.
I didn't mind my thinning hair despite the scoldings from my friends and the suggestions by barbers for a hot oil treatment after pointing out the bare spot. I was too preoccupied with other things and my hair was at the bottom of my least-important-things-to-do list.
My priorities changed when I found myself to have absolutely nothing to do. Aside from my Naruto DVD collection and a handful of books, I am now obsessing over hair regeneration.
I was lying on the couch, wasting away from boredom, when I absent-mindedly asked my aunt, who used to be in the practice, for something that could make my hair grow back. She suddenly became animated and endorsed Shane Herbal Oil. She claimed that she had stopped using shampoo and that she rubbed the jasmine-scented oil on her scalp daily. It worked miracles on her hair and proudly pointed out where hair grew back on her head.
Two days later, I acquired a bottle and started to do some scalp-rubbing myself. Every few days, I would ask the relative within arm's reach and ask if anything is growing on my head. They would squint and say that tiny hair are sprouting on my scalp. I would also take pictures of my scalp with my camera phone and complain that it still looks the same.
Two days ago, I met Joanna and Janice at a mall. I was going to meet Joanna, whom I haven't seen for over a year, in an internet cafe. After the initial shrieks and the standard how-are-you's, I bent over to look at the monitor. She saw the thin spot and exclaimed in a voice that carried throughout the cafe,"What happened to that?" and burst into hysterical laughter. Fortunately, the other customers were either busy smiling at their webcams or annihilating their enemies on Ragnarok.
Janice, caught up with us and we went to Mandarin restaurant to have dinner. While we were making our orders, I noticed that the food attendant was staring at me - specifically at the top of my head. For the first time in my life, I felt embarassed about it. But, at least, I am no longer the only one fascinated by it.
The other night, a maddening itch invaded the part of the scalp where I regularly rub oil on. My cousin said that it is a sign that hair is growing. I hope it's true.
Garfield, sometimes passes his time by watching paint dry. I pass my time by watching my hair grow back.
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