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It wasn’t long after my diagnoses that I began to see results. I generally felt better, not as sluggish.
Little hairs began to appear in the follicle desert on the top of my head. I tried not to get my hopes up. There was a good chance that my hair would never grow back since it had been bald for so long.
There was a good chance it would grow in completely grey or white. (Again, I’m going to put my theory out there that Rogue has alopecia.)
There was a good chance it would be patchy or thin. I was prepared to shave my head when that time came.
There was a decent chance that it would grow back. I wanted so much for this to happen and for it to all be over with. Just a story that came up every once-in-a-while that my hair fell out and grew back. Almost like it was just a bad dream.
There was also a good chance that I would lose my hair again, whether it be in the same area or a different place. This was something I would have to accept.
Around January 2015, the excitement built inside, and I dreamed of long, flowing locks of chestnut hair. I imagined styling my hair again. I envisioned a tousled mane waving in the gentle breeze as I jogged down the beach. Ok, minus the jogging part.
Then reality would set in and I would be reminded that it was quite possible I would wear a headband the rest of my life. The tears would begin to flow, and I would have to spend a few minutes reminding myself that I am stronger than this, that even though society dictated a woman’s hair strengthens her beauty, I would not let society’s expectations bother me.
I wondered how long I would take a pill in the morning, another one at dinner, another twice a week, and rub the greasy serum into my scalp every morning and night.
Only time would tell.
For clarity on the story above, please read the blog posts below.