It took two doses of Klonopin to get me through that gallery reception. The only thing more terrifying than having my head shaved was standing in the middle of a room surrounded by giant photographs of me having my head shaved The images are beautiful, and if there was another face in those pictures, I’d have found them poignant and thought provoking. But they weren’t of someone else. They were of me, and strangers stood there gazing at them and reading the excerpts beneath each image; the words describing my emotional journey as I sat in that chair beneath that cape.
I chose to go without a hat or wig to this event, my first time walking about with my scalp exposed to people I didn’t know or trust. As I walked about the gallery and exchanged pleasantries with the attendees, I noticed them trying not to look at my head. It was awkward, and I found myself actively fighting the underlying shame bubbling to the surface.
Although it was very difficult to discuss my struggles with so many people I’ve never met, I would not have missed it for the world. Trichotillomania is a very real part of my life. Its as much a part of me as my freckles and squinty, steel blue eyes. Standing in the corner of that room, watching people take in my emotions as I fight to become the master of my own mind and body, seeing them read the facts about trichotillomania that we printed and shared, and hearing them talk about the people they know that have dealt with this issue, or the battles they are waging against their own set of demons, I found myself very much in awe of the power authentic artwork wields.
So many kind words were graciously bestowed. By allowing my soul to be taped to the walls, people felt free to tell me about their own inner wars; their heartaches and their victories. I hoped seeing my heart poured out visually would be healing for me, but I honestly didn’t expect it to have that effect on others. I think I assumed people would feel pity or perhaps they might relate on some level to my pain. One after another, however, these distinguished patrons of the arts felt free to share snippets of their own journeys. By opening my spirit, others felt free to reciprocate. Once I stopped worrying about what I looked like, that simple reception became a powerful and beautiful evening of unconditional acceptance of our basic humanness. Inside us all are shameful secrets; thoughts, words and deeds we hide as much from ourselves as we do from others. One of mine is external and difficult to conceal, but by putting my bald head out there in a poster-sized picture and talking about this condition, I somehow give people permission to be honest and open, and that kind of freedom makes every ounce of fear worth it.
