How acrylic nails helped me beat my hair-pulling disorder

For years, Salma battled trichotillomania – the irresistible urge to pull out her hair. Then a simple trip to a nail salon transformed her life, and her sense of self…

Writing | Salma Haidrani

For most of my teens, mornings often followed the same pattern: I’d wake up with raw and red eyes, a sore scalp, several missing lashes, and patches of bare skin between my eyebrows. It took a few seconds before it’d dawn on me why: I’d deliberately pulled my hair out, and now there was hardly any of it left.

It wasn’t always like this. With our thick mane and full set of dark eyelashes, no one could easily tell me or my twin, Layla, apart.

Any attempts to ‘cure’ the disorder over the years – from putting plasters on my fingers, to meditation – had failed

But at 15, I’d developed trichotillomania, a disorder that saw me pull at my lashes, brows, and later my scalp. Stressed by looming exams, the familiar ritual of pulling a strand and coiling it around my fingers was soothing. It soon became addictive, and it wasn’t long before bald patches the size of a 50p piece appeared on my scalp. When I ran out of head hair to pull, I started tearing out my pubic hair.

I feared anyone finding out, so I’d painstakingly spend hours in front of the mirror, lining my eyes and brows with heavy kohl liner and pencil.

Despite my efforts to conceal my disorder, it wasn’t long before school friends found out. One particularly cruel jibe I heard was: ‘How can you tell the difference between the twins? Salma’s the one who doesn’t have eyelashes.’

The challenges that came with my condition were exacerbated by my heritage. Communities of colour like mine – I’m half- Lebanese, half-Pakistani – can often have an uneasy relationship with mental health. I certainly saw this first-hand. Relatives were reluctant to see trichotillomania for what is – a mental health disorder – but as something I could easily control. My parents, uncles, and aunts remained convinced that all it took to control my condition was willpower.

Any attempts to ‘cure’ the disorder over the years – from putting plasters on my fingers, to meditation – had failed. I had resigned myself to dealing with the disorder for the rest of my life.

But that all changed last April when I was taken, with fellow bridesmaids, to a salon to have matching red acrylic nails applied, ready for my sister’s wedding.

That evening, I found that the length made it difficult to grip, let alone pull, my lashes. I was so overcome with panic that I considered running back to the salon to have them removed. Over that week, it became too much effort to keep trying, and soon I realised that I barely pulled.

The impact acrylic nails have had on my life has been immeasurable. Within a month, lashes and brow hair started sprouting for the first time in years. Two months later, I had a full set of (albeit stubby) lashes. Applying mascara for the first time in more than a decade was surreal.

With my hair growth came renewed confidence: I no longer had to hide. Now I’m rarely seen without my acrylics – I’ve experimented with neon-green talons in summer and jet-black fingertips during October. If anything, I don’t feel like ‘me’ without them.

That’s not to say there haven’t been drawbacks. One white acrylic nail broke mid-way through a week-long trip to Ibiza last summer, and I found myself tugging absent-mindedly at my lashes while sunbathing.

Having to maintain my nails once a month can also take a toll on my finances. A new set can set me back as much as £45 (sometimes £65 if I opt for intricate designs). As a freelance journalist, my income can be unsteady, so sometimes I’ve had to cancel seeing friends, or cut back on meals out.

A surprising side-effect, too, has been discovering the stigma associated with acrylic nails. Although a number of celebrities have popularised acrylic nails – from the likes of Cardi B, Rihanna, and Kylie Jenner, to the female cast of Love Island – that the idea of acrylic nails being ‘common’, ‘classless’ or ‘tacky’ still persists.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been asked ‘How do you do anything with those nails?’ and even ‘How do you wipe after going to the toilet?’ At times, I’ve had to reveal my condition to complete strangers – something I’ve kept secret for more a decade – to distance myself from the negative associations of acrylics.

I haven’t pulled for a year and a half, something I’d never have thought possible a decade ago

It does a disservice to the transformative impact acrylic nails have had on my life and sense of self. After all, I haven’t pulled for a year and a half, something I’d never have thought possible a decade ago.

I no longer need to endure a three-hour round trip for eyelash extensions – nor have to brace myself for the technician’s confusion as she notices the empty patches of bare skin between my lashes. I can spend hours trawling make-up counters, trying new mascaras – a ritual I’d consigned to history, thanks to trichotillomania. For those battling the disorder, help is on hand. Though a fresh set of acrylic nails works for me, that’s not to say that will be the case for everyone. Mindfulness, fidget toys, wearing a tight-fitting hat, and CBT, can have a similar effect.

Online trichotillomania support groups, too, offer much solace and comfort, as people the world over have made me feel less isolated as we exchange ‘progress photos’, much-needed encouragement, and distraction techniques. To women of colour like myself with the disorder, I say: you’re not any less of a ‘woman’.

It’s heartening that high-profile figures, like Sam Faiers and Colin Farrell, are more vocal about their experiences with trichotillomania – I know I would have benefited from knowing that there were others who also struggled.

Gone are the days of waking up with a blurred vision and tell-tale bare skin between my brows. Gone, too, are the days of people being able to easily tell me and my twin sister apart just by a quick glance at the bald patches on my scalp. And for that, and more, I thank my acrylic nails.