Roots

by Emma Kantor

X

I didn’t wear my hair down for two years. I worried that if I unwound my thick brown ponytail, the dime-sized bald spot of my own making might be exposed. It sat at the top of my head, my crowning shame: a raw patch of scalp where I’d pulled my hair out by the root. I pressed the prickly strands of stubble with my fingertips, sharp as pine needles. The more tactile the evidence of recovery, the more urgent the desire to undo it. 

The compulsion hasn’t been as strong in the past year, whether because of therapy or medication or resolve, but it’s still a present-tense habit. I’m most susceptible in the morning and at night. During the hours when I’m bored and without company, my fingers move like magnets to the exact points I should leave alone. When I’m relaxing on the couch or reading in bed, I search for irregularities—real and imagined—bumps and scabs and coarse, vexing hairs. I dig my nails into tender skin. Sometimes my scalp weeps, staining my fingernails with blood. Caught red-handed. That’s usually when I stop, afraid of scarring. At my worst, I used to reach for my blue tweezers (no matter where I’d tried to hide them, I rooted through cabinets and makeup bags until they were in my grasp) and pluck the offending hairs. I imagined boring into my skull and extracting the source of distress: a DIY lobotomy. 

Most people wouldn’t even notice the spot. To me, it’s a glaring bull’s-eye. I hold my phone above my head to take photos, which I quickly delete. I’m fascinated by the pattern I’ve designed atop my head, like a fractal branching toward infinity. Zoom out to see the spreading damage. Zoom in to magnify my distress. I wonder why I’m fixated on that particular spot on my skull and not another. Maybe it corresponds to an innate defect in my temperament, or the locus of my anxiety. But phrenology is a fraud. 

IX

Senior year of college, in Abnormal Psych class, I leafed through the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, trying on different diagnoses. “Criteria for trichotillomania: 1) recurrent pulling out of one’s hair resulting in noticeable hair loss; 2) an increasing sense of tension immediately before pulling out the hair or when attempting to resist the behavior; 3) the disturbance causes clinically significant distress.” 

I first became aware of my habit as a freshman, camped out editing papers in the study carrels in the library basement. It started as a pensive gesture of fingers rubbing scalp, one I’d seen my dad make while lying on the couch, watching a Poirot mystery. He played it off as a quirk, a real head-scratcher, a way of activating his “little grey cells.”

VIII

I went to specialists. A psychiatrist prescribed pills and supplements. A therapist asked me about my dreams and my parents. A dermatologist warned me if I continued picking and pulling, I’d destroy the hair follicles. All suggested alternative habits and tricks to overcome my body-focused repetitive behavior.

“Have you tried knitting?”

“Have you tried fidget toys?”

I’ve tried everything short of hypnosis.

VII

My former boss was a nitpicker. She’d edit and prune articles up until the deadline, weeding out perceived defects until the words lined up according to her exact preference. She’d keep me at the office past seven, splitting hairs. Her obsessive need for control was contagious. Or maybe it’s true: we hire people who remind us of ourselves. Quarantined in my cubicle, I wanted to tear my hair out. With enough repetition, malady becomes cliché.

VI

One night, before the picking reached its peak, I was on a first date. I wore my hair down; it fell just below my shoulders with a pert bounce. After a couple of drinks, I wasn’t sure of my feelings, but I was open to seeing the guy again. We hugged goodbye outside the bar and as I turned to walk down the subway steps, I felt his fingers lingering, working their way through my hair. A stinging revulsion started at the base of my skull, spiraling down my spine. I bolted. I don’t think I was being picky. 

V

In my early teens, while the other girls adorned themselves like gifts with headbands and scrunchies and braids, I got a pixie cut. I wanted to channel plucky starlets like Audrey Hepburn and Twiggy. Adults told me I looked chic, but my peers didn’t get the references. I was mocked by the boys at school and often mistaken for one. So I decided to grow my hair out. After years of being cropped short, it grew in thick and unruly like a bird’s nest, a nightmare to tame. Getting ready to leave the house for school each morning, I’d stare at myself in the bathroom mirror while brushing and coaxing the frizzy waves into an obedient shape. Self-grooming on the way to becoming self-harm.

IV

When I was a kid, my mom enlisted me in plucking out her grey hairs. She would retrieve her blue Tweezerman from the medicine cabinet. Then she’d turn on all the lights in the family room and sit beside me on the couch, watching TV as I completed my assignment. After several minutes, she made me relinquish the tweezers. I’d become overzealous, pulling out precious “good” hairs. “Stop. You’re going to make me bald,” she said. I’m not sure how many times we repeated the ritual. 

III

In her early twenties, my mom had trich. I know because when she first noticed my habit of worrying at my scalp, she warned me it could become serious. She told me her preoccupation also started when she was in college, stressed out over a history paper. For a year—maybe two—she had to wear her hair up to keep herself from pulling out what she thought of as “ickies”—coarse, curly hairs. 

I wonder from which knot on our family tree we inherited the habit. I imagine if I pull hard enough, maybe the whole genetic mystery would uncoil, revealing my essential glitch. Of course, I know that’s the trick in trichotillomania: a word crammed with so many syllables it sounds made up. I can’t expect to unearth a single root of the problem.

When I asked my mom how she finally overcame it, she said, “I don’t remember. I just did.” 

II

Back in March, I decided to cancel my haircut appointment. Leaving the house seemed risky amid rumors of a possible pandemic. I got permission to work remotely and, alone in my Brooklyn studio, I was in prime condition to pick up the old habit. I sat in bed for hours on my laptop, editing articles while digging into the familiar, not-quite-healed spots on my scalp. I lasted a day like this before giving in to my parents’ pleas to stay with them in New Jersey.

I’m back in my childhood house now. This time, I’m armed with a ninety-day supply of antianxiety meds, and supplements and tricks for keeping my hands out of my hair. What was once a private habit is now under scrutiny. My mom sounds the alarm when she catches me scratching my head. She tells me to put on gloves.

When I complain about the trich, she braids my hair so I can’t get to the trouble spots. It’s not something she used to do when I was young; my hair was never quite long enough. 

“I wish I had thick hair like yours,” she says while combing it with her hands. “I’m rooting for you,” she says. The opposite of upbraiding. She takes a photo and we laugh at how lopsided the ponytail is. “It doesn’t matter. No one will see it on Zoom!” 

I

I rub at my scalp while checking my phone or watching the news. People quip on social media that by the time they emerge from self-isolation, their hair will be completely grey. Others post pictures of their attempts at bangs. Right-wing zealots gather in violation of stay-at-home orders, demanding the country reopen—so they can get haircuts. And against the backdrop of Black Lives Matter protests to root out injustice, in a mall parking lot a Chicago policeman pulls a young Black woman, Mia Wright, from a car by her hair and throws her to the ground. My problems are so small, there’s no comparison. 

When I reach my breaking point, I have the luxury of turning off the news and making challah with my family. I knead the sticky, squishy dough, roll it out onto the counter, divide it into three, and braid it. Over, under, over, under. I brush it with egg wash, giving it a shiny luster. It feels good to honor the Shabbat ritual, to create something nourishing with my hands. I look up videos for more intricate braids: crown-shaped loaves with four strands, five, six…

Published November 29th, 2020