My hair is scattered across my keyboard, desktop, and floor; yet, I need to find a way to continue my typing. I know what this means. This is not a hallucination. This is not a dream. This is not a random actuality. This is something called Trichotillomania.

More strands of hair fall than remain attached. Boredom. A dime-sized region of baldness becomes the diameter of a grapefruit. Fear. Relapse becomes the norm. Disappointment. A classmate finds out and questions a solitary hair spike. Humiliation.

I did not mean to pull out my hair, but I did. I do not know what I was thinking or feeling at the time, but I pulled anyway. I wish I could announce that it was an isolated incident, but it continued…

*From the back cover of Life is Trichy