This is a guest post written by Hania Kułakowska, who was inspired by her experiences with trichotillomania to become a hair dresser! She's lived with Trichotillomania since she was 11 years old, and has considered herself "pull-free" for 7 months. She is sharing her journey online to support others and grow more awareness around BFRBs! @kulakowskahania
TRICHOTILLOMANIA AND ME
The title is not accidental. There is a reason why I placed myself second in this story. For many years I was not the one leading my life. Trichotillomania was. It took control over almost every part of it and became the answer to almost every emotion I felt.
Sounds dramatic? Maybe. But that was my reality. TTM created such chaos in my head that even now, after recovery, I still struggle to fully describe it. I can face it now. I am not as afraid of it as I used to be, because I am in a completely different place than when it all started.
When I think about trichotillomania, I don’t first think about hair pulling. I think about shame, being excluded, jealousy, and this constant feeling that I need to “make up” for something I couldn’t even name. I think about a girl who believed she had to earn acceptance.
TTM made me compensate for my worth. Not through looks, because I felt like I already lost that. I did it through behaviour. I was extra nice, extra helpful, extra available. I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t set boundaries without guilt. I was afraid of disappointing people, afraid of being “too much” or “not enough”. Today I know this wasn’t just my personality. I was trying to balance something I didn’t understand.
It felt like if I couldn’t be the girl with beautiful hair, then I had to be the nicest one. The easiest one. The one everyone likes.
Beautiful hair was everywhere. It was commented on, admired, wanted. And slowly I started to believe it was connected with being accepted, being feminine, being “enough”.
I wanted people to see me first. Not my hair. Or actually — its absence. And today I know… I was the one who saw it the most.
And it all started one ordinary June evening, a few weeks before summer holidays. I was sitting in front of the TV with my grandmother and my dad, playing with my hair. I had never really cared about it before. It was just there. Nothing special.
They kept telling me to stop. I didn’t really understand why. So I went to my room. And I stayed there with it. With my new calming habit. That’s what it was for me then.
I didn’t feel pain. I didn’t feel like I was hurting myself. Actually, it felt the opposite. For the first time in a long time, I felt something I couldn’t name.
Calm.
Like everything slowed down for a second. Every problem and negative voice in my head were quieted for this short moment when I was pulling my hair.
Every pulled hair gave me this short relief. Now I know my body was just trying to deal with tension I couldn’t understand.
When I saw the bald patch, I froze.
Not because I was afraid of losing hair.But because I was afraid of people.Of my parents. Their reaction. Their disappointment. Their confusion. And mostly the question: “why did you do this?”
I still don’t know how I was supposed to answer that.
I didn’t do it to rebel. I didn’t do it for attention. I didn’t do it because I wanted to look different. I just couldn’t stop.
I remember my mum’s helplessness. And I know now it was helplessness towards the situation, not towards me. But as a child I didn’t see it like that. I saw myself as the problem.
And that was the moment I started feeling completely alone in it.I didn’t need solutions. I didn’t need questions. I didn’t need explanations.
I needed a hug.
I needed someone to tell me I’m not alone in this.
At school it got worse.I remember the day I showed my friend the bald patch. I lowered my head, hoping she would understand something I didn’t even understand myself.
She said one word.
“Disgusting.”
That word stayed.
Not because I fully believed it. But because it made me think that maybe everyone thinks it.From that moment I started living more in hiding than in my life.
Every time I left the house I checked everything. Is it covered? Is the scarf right? Will the wind show something? Before anything else — I checked how invisible I could be.
It was exhausting.
And slowly it became normal.
Just like the promise: “tomorrow I will stop.”
Tomorrow never came.
Evenings were the hardest. When I was alone with myself. Pulling gave me short relief, but right after came guilt. And slowly I stopped trusting myself. I started thinking I was weak.
But I wasn’t weak. I was just a child trying to handle something she didn’t understand.
For years I thought the problem was the hair pulling itself. Now I know the bigger problem was what I started believing about myself. When I looked in the mirror I didn’t see me. I saw the disorder. I didn’t see courage, or softness, or anything good. I just saw absence.
TTM took experiences from me. I didn’t go on trips. I didn’t sleep over at friends’ houses. Not because I didn’t want to — I literally couldn’t even manage the scarf that was supposed to hide everything.
I lived in tension. Even with therapy, I didn’t understand myself.
I felt lost.
I lived with trichotillomania my whole life. Between 14 and 17 I had a break. Three years where I thought it was gone. I stopped identifying with it. I rebuilt myself like it never existed.
And when it came back… it hurt more than before.
Not because of the hair. But because I felt like something I had left behind suddenly came back and defined me again.
Now I see it differently.
I don’t reject TTM anymore.Not because I like it. But because pretending it never existed never worked.It’s part of my story. But it’s not who I am.
In December 2024 I discovered the Keen2 wristband. I found it on Barbara Lally's instagram and I decided to get it immediately! It became a small but important support in my recovery. When the tension came and my hand moved automatically towards my hair, it sent a signal. A reminder. A pause.
A moment to ask myself: do I actually want to do this right now?
Most of my life I didn’t even get that moment. The decision happened before I was aware of it. That small pause changed more than I can explain. It reminded me I have a choice.
I have not pulled my hair for nine months.
I don’t know what will happen next, and I don’t want to promise anything I can’t control. But I know I am not in the same place anymore.
Today I am in a different place.
I work as a hairdresser. Something that once hurt me is now part of my everyday life. A space where I learn care instead of shame.
I look at my hair now and I see it growing back. Slowly. Not perfectly. But it’s coming back. And maybe that’s enough.
My story started with one pulled hair. But it was never just about hair.
