Happiful March 2020

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.
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
48 • happiful.com • March 2020