Hair loss isn’t something you expect to deal with at 17. Especially not while you’re in the middle of your A-levels.

It started in December 2024 with a few extra strands in my brush. I was busy revising and a bit run-down, so I assumed it was just stress. But by February, I noticed a small, round patch near the crown of my head. That’s when I realised it wasn’t nothing.

Things moved quickly after that. One patch became two, then more. I kept changing my parting and styling my hair differently to cover them, but by Easter, the hair loss had sped up. The back of my head was thinning fast, and I couldn’t hide it anymore. I started wearing bandanas, hoping they’d help me feel a little more like myself. All the while, I was juggling school, revision, and university plans. Trying to deal with the emotional weight of what was happening to me made everything feel overwhelming.

My mental health took a real hit. I felt like I was losing more than just hair. I was losing control. It was lonely, and I didn’t know who to talk to. Most people around me had no experience with alopecia and didn’t quite know how to respond. It’s a strange thing, grieving something that’s still technically “cosmetic”, but for me, the impact was so much deeper than just how I looked.

That’s when my mum found Alopecia UK. She showed me their website, and we sat together, reading stories from people who had been through the same thing. I can’t explain how comforting it was to hear my own thoughts reflected back at me by strangers. Suddenly I wasn’t the only one. There were people who understood the fear, the sadness, and the strength it takes to walk out the door when you don’t feel like yourself. Reading those stories, scrolling through the advice pages and posts, made a huge difference. They helped me feel less alone.

Over the Easter break, I made the decision to shave my head. Up until then, I’d been doing everything I could to hang on. Styling around the patches. Hoping it might stop. But it reached a point where hiding was more exhausting than just letting go. Shaving my head was emotional and scary, and I cried before, during, and after. My hair had always been a big part of me. People used to describe me as “the girl with the long hair”. Losing it felt like losing part of who I was. But doing it on my own terms, at a time I chose, helped me feel like I was taking some of the power back.

Not long after shaving my head, I began losing my eyebrows too. That’s something I still haven’t fully come to terms with. It feels different to the hair on my head. Maybe because eyebrows are so tied to expression and identity. I didn’t realise how much losing them would affect me until it happened. Some days, it still catches me off guard when I look in the mirror. It’s something I’m slowly learning to live with, but it’s been one of the harder parts of the journey.

After shaving my head, I bought a few headscarves from Alopecia UK, and they became a quiet source of confidence. They weren’t just practical. They helped me feel like myself again. I started going out without feeling like I had to explain myself. I wore the colours and patterns that felt like me, and slowly, I stopped worrying so much about what people might think. Some days I wear them, some days I don’t. What matters now is that it’s my choice.

When May came around, I turned 18, and instead of asking for gifts, I set up a birthday fundraiser for Alopecia UK. It felt like a small way to give back to a charity that had already done so much for me. I was overwhelmed by the support. Together with friends and family, we raised £432.50 (including Gift Aid). That moment reminded me that even in something as personal and painful as hair loss, there’s a chance to create something meaningful.

That fundraiser sparked something. I started to think more deeply about what it meant to live in a world where baldness is barely represented. Especially when it comes to women and young people. Even once I’d accepted my alopecia, I still felt invisible. I looked around and realised I didn’t see people like me in magazines, on TV, in books, or fashion. I couldn’t think of a single children’s character who was bald. Not one. That absence made a big impact. When you never see yourself reflected back, it starts to feel like maybe you’re not meant to be seen at all.

So I started a campaign called The Power of None. It’s based on the idea that representation isn’t just about who we do see. It’s also about who we don’t. And right now, people with no hair (especially women and children) are still largely missing from the stories we read, the adverts we watch, and the media we grow up with.

The Power of None is about changing that. It’s a call for more bald representation in children’s books, in fashion campaigns, in TV and film. I want kids to grow up seeing that being bald doesn’t mean being broken. That you can be happy, confident, joyful, and bald. That hair (or the lack of it) doesn’t define your worth.

Since launching the campaign, I’ve written letters, shared posts, created a petition, and spoken to people in politics and publishing. It’s early days, and I’m still finding my feet, but I care deeply about making sure future generations of bald kids grow up knowing they belong.

Being part of Alopecia UK’s 20 Stories for 20 Years feels incredibly special. This charity was there for me at a time when I didn’t know where to turn. It gave me community, resources, confidence, and hope. It reminded me that even though this journey isn’t always easy, it’s one I don’t have to walk alone.

If you’re just starting out with alopecia, I want you to know that however you’re feeling (scared, sad, confused, or angry), it’s okay. It’s all valid. You don’t need to rush into being okay with it. Some things, like losing your eyebrows, might take more time. Some parts of this journey are harder than others. But you are not alone, and there is a whole community ready to stand with you.

Alopecia changed how I look, but it didn’t change who I am. If anything, it’s helped me grow into someone braver, more open, and more determined than I thought I could be.

And I’m only just getting started.