The other day, I was running my fingers through my hair, feeling every inch of each strand. Most don’t know this about me, but I developed alopecia just a few years ago. It was traumatic, to say the least. I always loved my hair because it was the one thing that connected me more to my culture and religion than anything else. So when I woke up with a giant, striking bald spot on the right corner of my head, I was mortified. My mental health was already in turmoil, my stress through the roof. The worst part is, the more I stressed out about it, the more patches developed over time. My best friend was the only person entrusted with my hair. I would only get the bare minimum cut off during trims, terrified of losing any more of myself. The attachment was so strong that it was probably a bit unhealthy. But my hair was so much of who I was.