Hair Pulling: A Baffling Disorder
By Jennifer Raikes -- Publication Date: May/Jun 2003

Summary: One woman battles trichotillomania, the urge to pull out her own hair. Up to 11 million Americans wrestle daily with an overwhelming urge to pluck hair from their own bodies. Here, one woman describes her never-ceasing struggle with this impulse-control disorder.


 


n eyelash takes six weeks to grow back. I learned this when I was 9 years old, and to me, it was the world's most important lesson. For months, I had been pulling out my eyelashes and playing with them. I don't know why I started; it just felt good. Each one was interesting: There was a root, and sometimes pigment on the tip. I stared at them, lining them up in a row. Soon my eyelids were bare. Six weeks later, when I saw the tiny black dot of an emerging eyelash magnified in the mirror, my relief was intense: I hadn't permanently disfigured myself. But that little lash didn't stand a chance. I pulled it out before leaving the bathroom.

I spent the rest of my childhood battling this urge, trying everything I could fathom to stop. I smeared Vaseline on my lashes to make them harder to grasp, wore mittens while reading, even tied my wrists to my belt. My mind swirled with pep talks and admonitions. Despite daily--even hourly--resolutions to quit, my hand always sneaked back up the moment I let my guard down. Every year, I blew out my birthday candles with a wish to stop pulling. Instead, the problem spread to my eyebrows. I looked like a ghost. And I wanted to be invisible.

My parents did their best to help, consulting numerous doctors and therapists, but none had ever heard of my problem. My sixth-grade teacher drew a thickly lashed eye on my bookmark as a reminder, and only a few children mocked my naked eyes. Still, the self-consciousness and relentless sense of failure were exhausting. I had good self-discipline in general; why couldn't I control this one strange behavior?

I began to notice patterns in the pulling that persist to this day. I pull most often during passive, mentally absorbing activities such as reading, writing and watching television. The passivity fosters a sort of split consciousness. The rhythm of running my fingers over my eyebrows is soothing. One half of my mind is attuned to the texture of each hair, the tickle against my thumb. My thoughts churn with familiar dialogue: This hair feels out of place; it's too thick, too coarse. I need to get it out. Pinching index finger to thumb, I tug. The hair slips through my fingers, but I grip and pull again. In a moment of satisfaction, the hair is out. I roll it between my fingers and feel the sticky root. I bend it in an arc, testing its strength, and run it against my lips.

Despite the fact that half of my mind is absorbed in reading, my eyes focus on the little eyebrow hair I'm holding; I'm completely captivated by the filmy white casing of the root. Then, as my teeth click together, I snap awake. I've done it again. I flick the hair aside and shove my hand under my thigh. "Stop it!" I berate myself. "You can't afford to lose another one. You'll look like hell. Just read." But no sooner am I absorbed in the story, then my hand pops back up to my brow.

This urge waxed and waned like a primal tide throughout high school. I hid my eyes beneath long bangs and heavy eyeliner. Every morning, I awoke and ran a finger over the rim of my eyelid, gauging the extent of the night's damage. Scared to death that I was crazy, I would lie in bed and think of tests to determine my sanity. Even when my younger sister started pulling her own eyebrows, I felt isolated. We didn't talk about it much. Mostly, we argued about who had borrowed the other's eye makeup. The fact that we were both using the disputed eyeliner to hide the same habit was not a uniting force. And I was guilt-sticken with the notion that I had unwittingly taught her my behavior.