I’m going to be totally honest. This isn’t quite about midlife, but it’s a big part of who I am, probably much bigger than it should be, but that’s neither here nor there at this point. It may seem shallow or irrelevant to you and I understand that. There’s your warning about reading on.

I know a lot of people with really great hair. I mean, like the kind of hair that I can’t stop staring at when I see it. The kind of hair I dream about having and envy when I see women who have it in the movies or pictures. I do not have that hair. I actually have the exact opposite. If you see pictures of me before about 2015 or 2016, you will only see my hair pulled straight back in a tight (very, very tiny) bun with a super straight, super clean side part. That’s it. Weddings? That was the style. Funerals? Yep. Work every single day? You guessed it. I even got told by one of the worst bosses I ever had that I should not wear my hair in a librarian’s bun because I wear glasses and it made me look intimidating in an interview. I did not get that job (I assume it wasn’t because of my hair, but my mind is a crazy place). Also, side note: I interviewed for that position 6 months later with more competent people, got the job, and nobody mentioned my hair–just my answers and capabilities. Go figure. But as you can see, I never forgot the comment about my hair, mostly because I couldn’t wear it any other way and this prick pointed out my biggest insecurity, unwittingly.

If you see pictures of me post-January 2016, I have longer, thicker, darker hair. I wear it down sometimes, or up in a high bun, or a pony. It’s curly, like my natural hair, but sometimes I straighten it. It’s actually quite beautiful. People compliment it, ask me who does it, and ask what I’ve done different. And I am honest. I tell them I got extensions–not the tape-in ones (they ripped out my hair, which is ironic now) or the clip-in ones (I made a mess of that), but a good old-fashioned weave. I found a stylist who cut, colored, and styled my hair and installed hair that I bought. It was the best I’ve ever felt about my hair. I almost felt normal. You know, except for the fact that I couldn’t technically run my fingers through my hair, that I had a constant headache and struggled to hold my head up because of the weight of the hair (which, honestly, wasn’t that much, but it was more than I was used to and it never got easier) or that I had to only style my hair according to the tracks so nobody could see them. I may have been honest about having a weave, but I still didn’t want everyone to see the evidence unless it was my beautiful, dark, full hair. I have my limits, y’all.

3 years after I started with the weave (and actually 3 years ago), we moved out of state. I had to find a new hair stylist and, believe me, my girl was special. It wasn’t easy to find someone who could cut, color, style, and install my hair (in other words, a full-on licensed stylist) for an affordable price. It was so difficult, in fact, that I didn’t find someone. I found a great braider who does a terrific job on my install, but if I want my hair cut or colored, I have to go somewhere else or do it myself and either of those options are either a pain or expensive or both. It’s gotten to be too much. But that isn’t the worst of it all.

The worst of it all is that I know my hair has undergone damage (both reparable and irreparable) from this vain pursuit of mine. Now, please hear this: I’m not mad at myself for wanting beautiful hair. I don’t think liking a hairstyle or trying to have it is bad in itself and I don’t think anyone should judge anyone else for doing so. I’m mad at myself for not paying attention and being so insecure with my own hair (which, seriously, is awful) that I didn’t see the need to give my hair and my scalp a break. I ignored some common signs of what I now believe is traction alopecia (that will have to be diagnosed by a doctor after my hair appointment this week) and who on earth knows if I’m going to have to shave my head after this? That’s not an exaggeration. It’s what my nightmares consist of right now. That’s how serious I am about this not being a great situation.

I found someone in my city that specializes in thin, thinning, and fine hair who also works a lot with weft extensions and I’m meeting her this week to attempt to make a plan to get my hair healthier and heal some damage that I’ve done with 6 1/2 years of extensions without even one break. I’ve also packed a wig to take with me, just in case this whole thing goes south.

My husband thinks I’m exaggerating. I hope I am, but I know I’m not. While I’m thankful that I got to sort of experience pretty hair, I’m not thankful that I was so insecure (and have been all my life) about my hair that I brought all this on. I wish I could say that if I had it to do all over again, I would be more confident in who I am and what I was born with. But I don’t know that that’s true. A lot of the physical insecurities I have come from two things: my weight and my hair. I know what I have to do to address the former (well, I did know–all bets seem to be off in the ol’ mid-life), but the latter isn’t easy to address, so I went drastic. And now I’ll deal with the possible consequences. And lucky you, you’re right here to take the journey with me. Buckle up, sisters. It could get bumpy.