Andrea P.
Photography by Cat White
If you’re reading this, new growth takes patience.
I was five years old when I started pulling out my hair. At first, the habit was almost unnoticeable, and mainly consisted of me picking at the hair on my legs. But by the time I was eleven, my eyebrows were patchy, I had no eyelashes, and the top half of my head was marked with bald spots where I had compulsively pulled for years. The bottom half of my hair was long, so I would braid it and brush the short, thin top layer over the bald patches, trying to make it look as normal as possible. I would often adorn my braided hair with a flower or bow—my fraught attempt at using them as shields to hide what I couldn’t.
My parents did everything they could to help. By the time I was twelve, they put me in therapy, hoping professional guidance might offer a solution. They gave me stress balls to keep my hands busy and encouraged me to wear hats around the house to mitigate the urge. Nothing seemed to work. It was around then that we realized I had Trichotillomania, a condition where individuals compulsively pull out their hair, often resulting in significant hair loss and subsequent emotional and psychological distress. Sometimes, Trichotillomania is linked to anxiety or OCD, but to this day, I’ve never been diagnosed with either. Despite everything we tried—therapy, distractions, and different coping techniques—nothing seemed to break the cycle. I eventually stopped therapy, resigned to the belief that I would always be the girl without eyelashes and with strange hair.
As I entered high school, my Trichotillomania became more “manageable,” or, at least, easier to hide. I learned how to braid my shorter pieces of hair into the longer ones, disguising the damage. I could put my hair in a ponytail and create the illusion of normalcy. Still, people noticed. There were always questions—at church, at school, in my community. “What’s going on with Andrea’s hair?” “Why does it look like that?” While these questions were often directed at my parents, they always protected my privacy and never made me feel ashamed of something I clearly couldn’t control.
Somewhere along the way, I gained confidence. I became more comfortable with the idea that I might always be the girl without eyelashes and with awkward patches of short hair—and with these, I could still be beautiful. I accepted that this was part of my identity and felt a renewed sense of strength when people noticed and asked questions. Looking back, I see now that while my self acceptance was empowering, it also made it harder to let go of that part of my identity when the time came to change.
Just before the beginning of my third year of college, in August 2023, I had an idea. I decided to track every day I could go without pulling out my eyelashes. Forget about my hair, I thought to myself. One day at a time. No pressure.
Within six weeks, by September, I had a full set of eyelashes for the first time since I was five years old. I was in awe. I had prepared myself for disappointment, knowing that if you pull hair from the follicle repeatedly, it can stop growing altogether. But to my surprise, by implementing self-control and a tracking plan, I saw results faster than I imagined I would, and it was very encouraging.
When my parents visited for a football game, my mom spotted my eyelashes from yards away. She started crying before she even got close enough to say hello. Later, we went shopping for mascara for the first time. I had always dreamed of wearing mascara, something so small that I’d never had the opportunity to do. Applying it felt like embracing a part of myself I had missed for so long. I hadn’t expected eyelashes to make me feel more feminine or more whole—but they did. I now wear mascara all the time, and every time I put it on, I feel self-assured in my accomplishment and grateful I gave myself a chance.
A few months later in March of 2024, I thought, If I can grow my eyelashes, maybe I can grow my hair. At this point, I had a palm-sized area on my head that was patchy, and whatever hair was there was short, around an inch long. I saved up enough money to get extensions on the top of my head in an attempt to disrupt my pulling pattern. For the most part, it worked.
Almost a year later, the once short, damaged strands on the top of my head are now halfway to matching the length of the rest of my hair, and any bald patches that were there have filled in. For the first time since I was a little girl, I can wear my hair completely down and with a center part—and feel excited!
This process has not been perfect. I still relapse occasionally. Not long ago, I pulled out a patch of my eyelashes, leaving a gap that was hard to ignore and nearly impossible to disguise with mascara. Often I’ll catch myself mindlessly pulling a few strands of hair from my head. But I’m more cautious now. I don’t want to return to where I was.
What I’ve learned is that to step fully into this new identity—the girl with eyelashes and a full head of hair—I had to let go of the confidence I had built around being the girl without them. In a way, I had to mourn the version of myself who had no eyelashes, because I had spent so much time working on accepting her. That was harder than I expected. For so long, I was proud of the strength I found in accepting myself as I was. But growing meant allowing myself to move beyond that version of me, to let go of a version of myself I’d become proud of learning to love.
Now, every time I look in the mirror and put on mascara, I’m reminded of how far I’ve come—and how much strength it took to get here.
If you’re reading this and you struggle with pulling out your hair or another compulsion, know that loving and accepting yourself through the ups and downs is most important. Healing is not linear. Progress is not synonymous with perfection. And sometimes, stepping into a new version of yourself requires letting go of the comfort you once found in who you were.
Andrea P., University of Virginia
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