The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Day of the hair transplant

Today was the day of the hair transplant.

It was 8:20. I was supposed to be there in ten minutes. Shit, I was going to be late. I stuffed a few nuts in my pockets, like a squirrel, to eat on the way there. I got out the door and started running. The streets were strangely quiet because it's a Saturday.

I got there at 8:31 am, one minute late. I was out of breath. The receptionist greeted me. The other staff were still getting ready, so there had been no need to run after all.

The receptionist gave me a tablet: "To make you calm," she said. I didn't know what it was, but I necked it and downed some water. Pretty soon I would probably start hallucinating giant badgers and speaking in tongues.

They took me into an office. A woman draped a big black sheet around me like they do at the hairdresser's. Then she shaved my head. It was just like being at the hairdresser's. Then again, I hadn't been to a hairdresser's in nearly ten years on account of being bald. So maybe this wasn't like the hairdresser's at all. Maybe modern hairdressers have robots that cut your hair. I honestly wouldn't have known.

And all the while, I was waiting for this drug to kick in. I don't take drugs so I was probably a lightweight. What was going to happen when this drug started taking effect? Maybe I would have no memory of the events to come, just several embarrassing stories recounted to me by the staff later, like how I threw all my clothes off, climbed up onto the roof, and refused to come down.

The doctor came in. He drew on my head with a marker. "I hope that's not a permanent marker," I said as a joke. No, I didn't actually say that. I didn't want to open my mouth in case I started saying weird things.

The chairs looked just like giant baseball gloves. What the hell? Why would the doctor have chairs shaped like baseball gloves? Were they real, or had I started hallucinating? No, as far as I could tell, they were real. But would I have noticed them if I hadn't taken that unknown tablet earlier? Or had I noticed them because I was off my rocker on Valium? I didn't know. I had never taken Valium before so I didn't know what it was like. I didn't even know if what I took was Valium.

The receptionist took me to the end of the corridor where they had a white background on the wall for taking photos. She took some photos of my head, from all different angles.

Then I went into the surgery room. So this was where I would be spending the next eight to ten hours. There was an operating table in the middle of the room. There was also a big TV hanging from the ceiling. "You'll be able to watch Netflix!" the receptionist had told me, as if that was a big deal. But I didn't see a big TV as a good thing. I saw it as a bad thing. I had thought about bringing a book instead but then decided against it. Books are probably not sterile.

There were two surgical assistants.

"How are you today?" said one.

"Good, thanks!" I said in what I hoped was a cheery voice. I added, "I was looking forward to this!"

"You look scared," she said.

I was scared. I had never done anything like this. The most surgery I'd ever had was wisdom tooth surgery. And that was bad enough for me, thanks.

They told me to lie on the table, face down. There was a hole for my face to go into. As I lay on the bed and put my face in the hole, I saw there was a TV built into the floor. This one was playing a TV show about Will Smith. Except it wasn't The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. It was another one. He was older and he was going about kayaking and climbing mountains. He must have been going through a midlife crisis. A bit like me, getting this hair transplant.

The surgeon came in. He stepped onto the TV in the floor. Now his right foot was blocking Will Smith's face.

"You'll fall asleep for sure." That's what the receptionist had told me a few days ago. That I'd fall asleep during the surgery. Well, I didn't feel sleepy. If anything, I felt wide awake. Also, the padding around the head hole was digging into my face.

"I'm just going to put some anaesthetic into your head," said the surgeon. "This might hurt a little bit."

Then he started poking my head with a needle. This fucking hurt.

Now it felt weirdly like a pizza cutter? It felt like he was attacking my head with a pizza cutter. But a pointy pizza cutter, one with spikes sticking out of it.

Next, the surgeon started taking out hairs from the back and sides of my head. I was still wide awake. When was this drug kicking in? When was I going to fall into a deep and restful slumber? Never, it seemed.

After about an hour, they told me to lie on my side. This was a relief as I could finally take my face out of the hole in the operating table. The padding around the hole hurt more than whatever they were using to get the hairs out, which didn't hurt at all because of the anesthetic.

They put a blanket over me, "to keep you warm". Weirdly, they put the blanket over my face as well? Maybe it was to help me sleep. Well, it didn't work. I was still wide awake.

My job was to stay perfectly still. Which was easy, really. If they could give me hair in exchange for staying still, then I could stay still, no problem.

This blanket was making me hot though. I was too hot. I wished they'd take it off.

"Is it okay to take the blanket off?" I asked, from under the blanket.

"What?" said the nurse.

I lifted my head from the table, making the nurse jump in fright. "I said, is it okay to take the blanket off?" I asked again.

"Don't move your head!" the nurse scolded me.

"Sorry," I said. I put my head back down. Fuck. Staying still was harder than I thought.

They took the blanket off.

It took them three hours to take the follicles out. They had removed 2,700 follicles from my head. But where were the follicles? I didn't know. I assumed they were in a machine somewhere. I probably should have done some more research about how hair transplants worked before going through with this.

I was allowed to move again. Now it was time to sit upright so they could put the hairs back in. "Here's the remote," said the surgeon, handing me a TV remote. I flicked through the options on the TV. There was Netflix, YouTube, the Disney channel. He had everything.

I put on the latest Marvel TV show, Hawkeye. I soon found out that it was boring. But that was okay, because if I put something interesting on the TV, then the nurses might start watching it and get distracted from my hair transplant. The number one priority now was that they do a good job so I didn't end up looking like Frankenstein's monster. Imagine if I put on The Simpsons, and while the surgeon was laughing, he implanted hairs into my nose by accident? Then I'd have hairs growing out of my nose for the rest of my life. Though come to think of it, I already do have hairs growing out my nose. They're called nose hairs.

I wasn't allowed to move again. So I didn't want to risk moving my arm to change the channel. If I moved my arm, then my head might move as well, and it could fuck up the hair transplant. They had warned me once already to keep still. I didn't want to risk another warning.

Then we stopped to have lunch. They gave me a bottle of water and a massive sandwich with an omelette inside. I ate it alone in an office while stretching my stiff neck.

Then we went back to surgery to implant the last of the hairs.

After the fourth episode of Hawkeye, a movie called Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings started playing automatically. So I started watching it. It was pretty good actually.

The two assistants were still putting the hairs into the top of my head.

"How are you feeling?" asked one of the assistants.

"Good," I said. "I can't feel a thing. Except for my neck, which is killing me."

"Well, just hold on a little longer. We're almost finished now."

And then before I knew it, it was over. Now it was 5 pm. The whole thing had taken about eight hours. My only regret was that I didn't get to finish watching the movie.

The assistants looked happy. "Your head's very soft so we got all the hairs in quickly," she explained. "Now we get to go home early".

My head was soft? I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I hoped they hadn't accidentally stabbed my brain while they were putting the hairs in my soft head. I didn't want any brain damage because I'm already stupid enough as it is.

Girlfriend came to pick me up. She got a shock when she saw me.

"What do you think?" I said.

"It's uh.... yeah," she said.

I hadn't seen my head yet. There were no mirrors in this place. I soon discovered that this was for a reason. It was to stop patients from screaming in terror.

On the way back home, we stopped at a pharmacy because I needed to buy some antibiotics and anti-inflammatories. There, in the pharmacy, I saw myself in a mirror for the first time. And Jesus Christ, it was like the front of my head was covered in blood-poked holes. It was covered in little dots of blood. And that was just the front. The back of my head was even worse. The entire back of my head was covered in spots of blood. Hundreds of red spots. It looked like I had a horrendous skin disease.

"It's a hair transplant," I told the pharmacist.

"Oh," she said. "I've always wondered what a hair transplant looks like."

I still didn't feel much pain because of the anesthetic. But that was going to wear off soon.

Finally, here are some before and after photos.

Before (this morning)

After

Day 1 after the hair transplant

Top

The top of my head looks like a giant red arrow has been drawn on it in little dots.

Back

The back of my head looks raw and grisly, like something from a horror film.

I haven't been outside today. I don't want to scare anyone.

Day 2

Ow, my head. Ow, my head. I wish I'd never had this stupid transplant.

Day 3

The back of my head looks like hundreds of tiny insects have attacked it.

Day 6

The blood on the top of my head now looks like body art or a strange tattoo. People probably think it's a form of self-expression. It makes me feel cool, like I've tattooed my head. Maybe soon, other people will copy me by painting their own heads with little red dots, and it'll be the latest craze.

Scabs are forming on the back of my head. And I tell you something: it feels amazing to rub these off on the sofa.

Day 12

I look forward to the day when my head will look normal again. At the moment, it still looks like I've got a skin disease.

By the way, I woke up today with a terrible back today. My lower back feels like it's haunted. I would normally go to the gym and do some stretches or go rock climbing or something for my back but I can't because the hair doctor said that I can't do any exercise until day 15, just in case it makes my hair fall out.

I wish I could go out and do some exercise. Not just for the exercise itself, but just to be around people other than my girlfriend and son. It's the social aspect of exercise that I miss. I'm kind of just stuck in the house at the moment.

Day 18

The top of my head is looking better. It's not red anymore. Though there are a few scabs, as you can see in the photo below.

The back and sides look better too. There are still spots of blood but you can't see them unless you're looking closely.

By the way, three nights ago, I had a dream where I had thick, luxurious hair. It was amazing. The hair transplant was a massive success. Then I woke up. It was a shame to wake up from that dream.

Also, on Christmas Eve, I was farting a lot. I don't normally fart, so I think farting so it might be something to do with the antibiotics from the hair transplant surgery. (I had to take antibiotics for the first week after the surgery.)

The hair doctor has prescribed me finasteride, so I'm taking that now. It stops your balding from getting worse. Though one possible side effect is permanent erectile dysfunction. That means even when you stop the medication, you still can't get an erection. So taking finasteride is like playing Russian roulette with your penis. Because if you're one of the unlucky ones, then your penis is not going to work anymore. But on the upside, I won't lose any more hair from my head.

Month 2

It's been 2 and half months since the hair transplant. Here's what my hair looks like now.

Yes, there's barely anything there. I'm still bald. But, to be fair, it's only been two months. The hair hasn't had a chance to grow yet.

Top

The top of my head is still red. It reminds me of Vision from the Marvel comics. I wonder how long it'll take for the redness to finally go away?

Back

The back of my head looks okay. You can't tell five thousand hairs were removed from it. It looks better than okay, even. It looks good. It's just a shame the back of my head is weirdly misshapen as if I was dropped on my head as a baby. Actually, maybe I was dropped on my head as a baby. That would explain a lot.

PRP therapy

A couple of days ago, I went back to the hair transplant clinic for platelet-rich plasma (PRP) therapy.

But first, let me tell you about what happened when I entered the building.

So the receptionist greeted me, and then she looked at my head.

"Have you been shaving it?" she asked.

"Yeah, with an electric shaver," I said.

She looked shocked. "You can't do that," she said. "It might pull the hairs out."

"Oh," I said. "I didn't know that."

"Well, it could be worse. At least you waited until two months after the surgery to start shaving it."

She was wrong. I didn't wait until two months after the surgery to start shaving it; I waited until one month after. And I've been shaving it every week. Fuck. They didn't tell me not to shave it.

Anyway, so, the PRP therapy. Here's how it works. They take blood out of your arm, centrifuge it to separate out the plasma, and then inject the plasma into your head. It's supposed to make the hair on your head grow thick and strong. I don't know how it works. Something about growth factors. Can you tell I have a degree in Biology?

But let me tell you: it was painful. Christ, it was painful. Not the part where the nurse took the blood from my arm. That was okay. That was just one needle. I mean the part where she injected the plasma into my head.

It was just a little tiny needle, but what made it hurt was the fact she stuck into my head over 100 times. I'm not exaggerating; I counted.

And every time she put the needle in my head (which was about once every couple of seconds), I could hear the needle going in. It was like the sound of polystyrene.

The pain was worse than the pain during the hair transplant. Because I had anaesthetic for the transplant but didn't get any anaesthetic for the PRP. She actually offered me some but I wanted to come across as strong and macho so I turned it down.

The pain of the injections was so bad that I almost cried. I had to hold back my tears.

"Are you okay?" the nurse asked.

"Yeah, totally fine," I said.

It was a lie because it did hurt. And I've got to go back in two months to do it again. Also, it cost me 300 euros. It's not easy looking beautiful, I guess. Or cheap.

Month 4

It's been just over 4 months since my transplant. The hair has started growing a bit now.

It's not great. I have about as much hair as Charlie Brown from the Peanuts comics. Which is, to say, very little.

Sides

The sides of my head look awful. The hair here is sparse, like the hair of a newborn baby. The curse of male pattern baldness. Maybe it'll look better as my hair gets longer. It can't look any worse, that's for sure.

Back

I still have an awful bald spot on the back of my head. And it's huge. Whether the bald spot will go away eventually, I don't know.

Month 6

My hair has grown a lot over the past couple of months. As you can see in the photo below, I currently have hair a bit like Tintin.

So I've gone from bald to having a strange quiff.

Maybe I more resemble a cress head: an eggshell with cress 'hair' that kids love to make.

Sides

The sides are looking better. They still objectively look bad, but at least there's been an improvement.

Back

It's when we get to the back of my head that the horror reveals itself.

The back of my head looks awful. There's a big, white, bald dome protruding from a forest of hair. It looks like the top of an egg.

The growth of my hair hasn't done anything to make it look better; in fact, it's worse, because the long hair on the back of my head contrasts with the empty, featureless, landscape that is my head's dome.

From behind, I must look like Friar Tuck.

Top

Finally, here's my head from above.

What's that you say? I should just accept getting bald and shave it all off? No fucking way. I'm never being bald again. Even the shit hair I have now is better than being bald.

Month 9

Oh man. Oh God. Oh Christ. My fucking hair. It's been 9 months since the hair transplant and my hair still looks shit.

From the front it looks alright, I guess:

But from the side, it looks awful, like I've started a trial of an experimental drug that makes your hair fall out:

In various places you can see my scalp underneath, showing through.

But I see your bald scalp

Showing through

I see your bald scalp

And that's why I love you

So don't be afraid to let it show

Your bald scalp

Is beautiful

Also, on the back I still have a massive bald zone.

And from the top it's very clear that I'm balding.

My only hope is that I can have another hair transplant. I'll happily fork over another €6,000 to get that bald spot covered up. It's hair that I want, it's hair that I need.

Also also, I had this conversation with my uncle-in-law, someone I haven't seen for ten years:

Me: "I had a hair transplant."

Wilf: "Oh really? Has it started working yet?"

Me: *Stunned* "What? Of course it's started working. I was bald before the transplant. Now I have hair."

Wilf: "Maybe you should just embrace your baldness. You know, just shave your head."

Okay, first of all, I tried embracing my baldness. I shaved my head FOR TEN YEARS. So I've done that already.

Second of all, embracing your baldness is the opposite of what you should do. Because what you should do is fight your baldness with everything you have. Like Dylan Thomas's poem "Do not go gentle into that good night", except instead of fighting death, you're fighting baldness.

Do not go gentle into that bald head

Rage, rage against the dying of your hairs

Because baldness makes every man look worse than when they still had hair.