Bare
& Brave

"I did not lose my hair. I lost a version of myself I thought I needed and found someone far stronger underneath."

My name is Kellina. I was fifteen years old when I first noticed something was wrong. Small patches, quiet and easy to dismiss at first. A blood test later confirmed I was anaemic, a clinical answer that explained very little about what I was actually living through. In an attempt to cover what was happening, I turned to what so many girls my age did: synthetic hair extensions, high ponytails, the L'Oreal hair cover-up spray, anything to look normal. What I did not know then was that the tension and weight of those extensions were quietly making things worse. By the end of ninth grade, my scalp told a story I was not ready to share with anyone.

I remember the day so clearly. My mom took me with her to a hair salon. The hairdresser looked at my scalp, and the question on her face said everything her words did not have to. I did not respond. I did not even fully register that I was being judged, not until I got home, went straight to my room, closed the door, and cried. That was the beginning of my fear of being judged. That kind of hurt is particular. The kind that settles in slowly, once the room is quiet enough to feel it.

I remember hearing my mom tell my dad that night that they needed to take me to a specialist. And I remember the silence that followed. My dad did not fully understand the weight of what was happening. Nothing came of it. No specialist. No real answers. I was a teenager navigating something enormous, and I navigated most of it alone.

So at sixteen, I made a decision entirely my own. I told my two best friends what I was going to do. They did not try to talk me out of it. They encouraged me, held me up, and made me feel like the bravest version of myself. That same day, I walked into a hair salon and shaved what was left. And the moment it was done, I felt something I had not felt in a long time. Free. Confident. Like myself, for the first time in years.

What I did not expect was what came next. The moment I stopped hiding, other people felt entitled to speak. The bullying started, rumours from older grades comparing me to a celebrity, comments about what I should do with my hair, opinions from people who had no idea that underneath every before photo, I had been hiding six pieces of extensions. The criticism was constant and careless. By eleventh grade I had built a wall. I stopped letting people have opinions on my choices. By twelfth grade I started growing my hair back, hoping the shave had somehow reset my follicles. I had been born with thick hair and I wanted to believe that version of me was still there. It was, for a while. And then it was not.

Out of school, the patches returned. And this time the fear was different. I was an adult now. The stakes felt higher. I stayed quiet, stayed hidden, stayed scared of being judged in a new chapter of my life. Until the end of 2022, when something shifted. I had done it once. I could do it again. That same day, just like the first time, I shaved my head completely bald. And just like the first time, I felt free.

This time I also got answers. A formal diagnosis: alopecia areata. I took the medication route. I committed to self care, monitoring my iron and vitamin D, being careful about what I put in and on my body, reviewing products for weeks before changing a single thing in my routine, because my scalp has taught me that every choice carries consequences. The anxiety around it is real. The constant second guessing is real. Living with an autoimmune condition means your body is always in negotiation, and the world does not always give you the grace to do that quietly.

The past four years have been the most honest of my life. A journey of self discovery that extended far beyond my hair into who I am, what I want, and most importantly who I allow close to me. I have learned that the people who can fully accept you, exactly as you show up, are rare and precious. That kind of acceptance does not stay contained. It spreads into every meaningful relationship in your life. Your friendships deepen. Your family bonds shift. You start to understand your own worth in a way that no one else's opinion can touch.

I still watch what I eat. I still do blood tests. I still spend weeks researching a new shampoo before I try it. I still feel a flicker of old resentment when someone offers an unsolicited opinion on my appearance. These things do not disappear. But they no longer define me.

"To anyone living with alopecia, or any autoimmune condition that has rewritten your relationship with your own body, your grief is valid, your anger is valid, and your beauty was never conditional on any of it. You are not your diagnosis. You are everything you have chosen to become despite it."