At the very top of the search results, a colorful carousel of vitamins, serums, shampoos, and direct-to-consumer prescription services appeared a so-small-you-could-miss-it disclosure in one corner signaled that these products weren’t real search results, but advertising. I did what everyone does: I Googled my symptoms. When I looked at it, the panic became sharp. Feeling a sense of dull panic at the no-longer-refutable idea that something might be wrong, I tipped my head forward to take a picture of my scalp with my phone’s front-facing camera. I still had enough hair, but notably less than I’d had before the pandemic. One day, after washing and drying my hair, I looked at my hairline in the mirror and it was thin enough that I could make out the curvature of my scalp beneath it. The second time it happened, a little more than a year later, I was sure-not because of what was in the shower drain, but because of what was obviously no longer on my head. Or at least I thought it was-how much hair in the shower drain is enough to be sure that you’re not imagining things? Now my hair was falling out for no appreciable reason. ![]() ![]() ![]() I wasn’t okay, necessarily, but I was fine. I hadn’t gotten sick in New York City’s terrifying first wave of the pandemic. This was the summer of 2020, and although the previous three months had been difficult for virtually everyone, I had managed to escape relatively unscathed. When I first suspected that I was losing my hair, I felt like maybe I was also losing my grip on reality.
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