Six weeks ago today, 7:15am, I checked into the Wimpole Clinic on Harley Street.

It was time for the transplant.

Of the hair variety.

Why write about it on my writer newsletter?

Because of stories. Particularly the ones we tell ourselves. Ones that can be faulty.

I've written this off-the-cuff this morning though, so bear with me.

No-Brainers

So, there are some decisions in life that are straightforward. You don’t question them. What you might call no-brainers.

This wasn’t one of them.

Putting yourself at medical risk. A punchy price tag, especially once I ruled out a Turkey trip. Plus, the last time I had a proper buzz cut was at a barbers in Backwell as a young teenager. Over 20 years ago!

Seeds of Doubt & Salah

Growing up, I’d seen a few friends lose theirs rapidly. Here today, gone tomorrow. Mine has been more of a slow creep like a glacial decline.

After turning 30, I got a couple of shouts from the sidelines on a football pitch. Throwaway lines that meant nothing to the person saying them, but planted a little seed of doubt in my mind.

I, of course, then noticed on certain photos, particularly when wet, that the reflexive combover job wasn’t working.

Chatting to my fiancée Liv and she couldn’t deny my diagnosis. But as a fan of Ross Kemp and Jason Statham she claimed she ‘wasn’t bothered’ what I did, while also noticing I seemed worried about it.

Anxiety often stems from worrying about what you can’t control. Hair loss fits perfectly into that category. Or does it?

At this point I did go down the internet rabbit hole scanning for options for action.

Finasteride/Propecia, tattoos, all those Insta ads.

I ruled out the drugs for me because of potential side effects, even though I know various guys who’ve had real success with them.

Around this time, one other thing started nudging the idea along.

Enter Mohamed Salah.

As a Liverpool FC fan I was watching the Egyptian forward on a weekly basis. His distinctive wavy afro-style lid was doing him few favours. Clearly receding.

Yet at the start of the 24/25 title winning season he was a new man. A sharp cut. Shocking at first. Only it wasn’t just a haircut. It was a pre season transplant.

Where had he got it done you may ask?

Mo had his done at the Wimpole Clinic. Turned out they have a Bristol office. Another idea planted.

The Idea Germination Period

I can’t remember the exact order of things, but I think it was around this time I booked in for an initial (free) consultation. That old chestnut.

This was great. Adam, one of their team, illuminated the options for me and pulled no punches about the process.

No commitments, but I’d sit with the idea over the coming months. Each Liverpool game felt like further proof things were going well.

Once I then got over the hurdle of health risk and finances, the question started to morph into when rather than if.

I still flip flopped towards a “Don’t be ridiculous, Jim, it’s only hair, what are you thinking!?” on multiple occasions.

There’s never really a perfect time to do something like this.

The op itself. A week of sleeping upright on the couch with a neck pillow. No sport or activity (including my beloved saunas), full stop really, for a month. Looking like a tool for that time… Or so I imagined anyway.

Still, with my wedding booked for October 2026, there was a clear timeline available should I choose to accept it.

Another quiet story.

If you’re going to do it, do it now rather than wishing you had later.

I also thought January might be a good time for mini hibernation. A few extra weeks of remote working. A winter break from the football and swimming. I could write that RomCom book I’ve been plotting for years... Well, that didn’t happen but hey ho.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

One reason I wanted to write about this was to explore the role of perception.

Someone can be convinced their teeth need “fixing”, yet you’ve never once noticed anything wrong with them.

Various people have said to me, "I've never noticed you looking short of hair".

A gap between subjective and objective reality.

My main thing for me was I didn’t want to go bald.

This is nothing on such a state. My Dad and one of my best friends, they’ve both ‘braved the shave’.

I just convinced myself I wouldn’t look good like that.

Harbouring a fear a few other chaps have said to me that they’ve got bumps and not too spherical heads that would be constant amusement to others.

The reality was I never would have shaved it all off if left to my own devices. The story in my head was already written. With permanent pen.

“I’d look terrible bald.”

I made the plunge.

Hair transplant booked.

The Day Itself

It was 4th of Jan so Christmas/new year revelry was in the rear view mirror and this day had crept up.

Liv & I booked an ‘interesting’ accommodation option in walking distance for the night before. A Pizza Express dinner and David Attenborough dinosaur fossil documentary helped to soothe the match day nerves and ensure a bit of sleep.

I was put at ease pretty early doors though when I arrived to the clinic and found my surgeon had done Ben Stokes, the cricketer’s hair. Fitting given the Ashes series that was in play.

The procedure itself involved a relatively long day. Clinical but calm. Science doing something that feels a bit like magic. The most painful part was the anaesthetic going in at the start. After that, it was okay.

I was having the FUE process. Individual follicles are taken from the thicker area at the back of your head and moved to where they’re needed (temples and crown for me), 2,800 follicles to be precise.

Note - Even people who think they are far gone can get results. You only have to look at Wayne Rooney to realise how much the technology has moved on.

They still can’t separate out the (growing) greys unfortunately!

0-6 Weeks

A few highlights/anecdotes:

• Diazepam for surgery meant one of my best sleeps was the first night, propped up on our lounge sofa, watching England toil in the cricket in Australia
• I felt like a proper patient in the first few weeks with Liv pouring jugs of medicated shampoo onto my scalp and hourly saline sprays
• The first few days I couldn’t look at the selfies sent to Adam
• Talking about the transplant on a company wide Google Meet call at Swoop with the camera on
• One colleague at work didn’t say hello to me initially as she thought I was a new starter, ha!
• Getting a few Dermot Kennedy shouts early doors, “you suit the buzz cut, Jim”
• Wayne Rooney comment at first footy training. If that’s the story they want to tell. Who am I to stop them? I don't share his goalscoring prowess sadly.

Six Weeks On - A New Narrative

It's still early days. Results take months, not weeks. I can't recommend it either way currently.

I’ve also entered the messy middle where the new transplanted hairs are shedding. I’m getting the most complete picture of my natural look…

But already the biggest shift isn’t what I see in the mirror, it’s a new story.

“I look alright bald.”

Certainly an irony. If I’d known this sooner, I could’ve saved a bob or two!

And yet, for the October wedding, could I give Aragorn (Viggo Mortensen in the Lord of the Rings films) a run for his money, with flowing locks down to my shoulders...

That could be funny.

Hmmm, let’s not get carried away.

I guess this ramble isn’t really about hair though.

It’s about the stories we tell ourselves, and deciding which ones we want to turn the page with.

Hang Comfy,
Jim

P.S. Braving Baldness?
If anyone reading this is 'follicley' challenged and considering options to do something about it, do reach out. I’m happy to answer questions or share more on what the experience has been like so far.