Nicole Davis

Read This If You're Losing Hair on a GLP-1 👆

At my six-month checkup, my doctor stood up and shook my hand. "Down 41 pounds. Well done. Honestly." Then I asked her one question. She sat back down and couldn't quite look at me. I'll tell you what I asked her. But first you need to know what the seven months before that appointment were like, because I think some of you are living them right now. I'm 44. Two kids, a part-time job at the front desk of a doctor's office, and a body I'd been at war with since my second pregnancy. I'd done everything. Weight Watchers three times. Couch to 5K twice. A meal-replacement shake that tasted like chalky strawberry milk. I'd lose 14 pounds, then gain 21 back, every time, like clockwork. So when my doctor finally agreed to the injections last March, I sat in the parking lot afterwards and cried with relief. Month one, the food noise just stopped. For the first time in my adult life I could walk past the cookie jar at work without it shouting at me. Month two, my jeans needed a belt. My husband Mark started looking at me across the kitchen the way he hadn't in years. Month three, my sister took a photo of me at my niece's birthday, and I didn't ask her to delete it. I posted it. Forty-three likes. My mom commented a heart emoji. My mom has never commented on anything. I remember thinking: this is it. This is finally it. Then, the second week of July, I got out of the shower and looked down. There was a clump in the shower drain. Dark and wet, the size of a quarter. I told myself it was nothing. Long hair, you know. The next morning it was bigger. Within a month I was clearing it out every single day with a bit of toilet paper before Mark went in. There was hair on my pillow. Hair woven into my hairbrush so thick I had to cut it out with nail scissors. My hair tie, which I'd used for years, went around three times instead of two. And my part. In the bathroom light, every morning, a little bit wider. I stopped wearing it down. Then I stopped washing it more than twice a week, because I couldn't face the shower drain. I did what you're supposed to do. I went back to the doctor in August. They did my bloodwork. Iron, thyroid, vitamin D, the lot. "Everything's normal, Jo." Normal. I was losing my hair in handfuls and everything was normal. So I went to CVS and spent $60 on biotin, collagen, and a "hair, skin and nails" tub. I started tracking my protein on an app like I was training for the Olympics. Chicken, eggs, shakes. I joined two Facebook groups for women on the shots. Hundreds of posts. Hundreds of photos of shower drains and hairbrushes and parts. And every comment underneath said one of three things: It's temporary, hun. Just ride it out. It's a small price to pay. Look how far you've come! I'd read those at 1am with my phone under the covers so the light wouldn't wake Mark, and I'd think: then why does it feel like I'm being punished? Because I'd finally done it. The thing I'd failed at for fifteen years. And the reward was standing in my own bathroom every morning, picking my hair out of a shower drain. By October the gummies had done nothing. The protein had done nothing. Waiting had done nothing. And one question had been going round and round in my head for weeks. I'd rehearsed it in the car. I'd typed it into my notes app so I wouldn't chicken out. So, back to that appointment. Dr. Patel shook my hand. She was genuinely pleased. I could see it. She'd been my doctor for nine years. She'd watched me try and fail and try and fail. She sat down, turned to her screen, and said, "So, anything else today?" And I said it. "If I stop taking the injections, will my hair come back?" She stopped typing. She sat back in her chair. She looked at my part. Then at her screen. Then at the box of tissues on her desk, which I think was the moment I realized she was going to need them for me. "It's… it's very common with rapid weight loss, Jo. It usually settles on its own." "When?" "It can take a while. Months, sometimes." "And if it doesn't?" She didn't have an answer. She was kind about it. She said something about stress, and protein, and patience. But I'd worked at that front desk for six years. I know what a doctor sounds like when there isn't really a plan. I didn't cry in her office. I waited until the car. That night I took the pen out of the fridge. I stood in the kitchen at 11:30, holding it, with the fridge door open and the light on my face, and I seriously thought about putting it in the trash. 41 pounds. The photo my mom liked. The way Mark looked at me across the kitchen. Or my hair. Nobody had told me I'd have to choose. I put the pen back. But I didn't sleep. What changed it was the most ordinary thing in the world. I had a hairstylist appointment I'd been dreading for weeks. I nearly canceled. Kerry has done my hair for eleven years, and I didn't want her to see. I sat in the chair and before I could say anything, she put both hands on my head, parted my hair at the crown, and said very quietly: "You're on the shots, aren't you, honey." Not a question. "How did you know?" "Because you're the thirty-second one I've had in this chair since last spring. Same timing. Month four, give or take." I started crying in front of the whole salon. She handed me a tissue and turned my chair away from the mirror. "Let me guess," she said. "Bloodwork's normal. Biotin. Collagen. Protein shakes. Nothing." "How do you know all this?" "Because it's what everyone does. And it's the wrong way around." I asked her what she meant. "Where do you think a biotin gummy goes?" she said. "To… my hair?" "It goes to your stomach. Then your blood. Then it joins the line behind your heart, your brain, your liver, your muscles. Everything your body needs to keep you alive. And you're eating half what you used to. Your body's rationing everything. Hair's the very last thing on the list. By the time anything from that gummy gets to your scalp, there's nothing left." "So what's actually happening to it?" "When you lose weight that fast, the shock knocks a big chunk of your follicles into a resting phase all at once. They don't die, Jo. They stop. They're stunned." She tapped my crown. "That's why your bloodwork's normal. Nothing's wrong in your blood. The problem's sitting right here, and everyone keeps telling you to fix it from the inside." "So do I need to stop taking the injections?" "Don't you dare. That's between you and your doctor, not me. But your hair doesn't need you to stop. It needs help where it actually lives." "I've tried everything though, Kerry. I can't spend more money on stuff that doesn't—" "You haven't tried everything. You've tried everything that goes in your mouth." She went to her station and came back with a small bottle. "This is what I've been giving every woman on the shots who sits in this chair. And what I'd use myself." It was called Veyla. A Korean scalp serum with a little brush built into the tip of the bottle. "Twist, squeeze, brush it straight along your part and your crown. On the scalp, not the hair. Caffeine, fenugreek, Korean botanicals. It's light, like water, so it won't make your roots greasy. Under a minute every night. Don't rinse it." "How long before—" "Shedding first. Watch your shower drain, usually four to six weeks. New growth takes longer. Hair is slow, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying." "And if it doesn't work for me?" "They give you sixty days. Send it back." The first night I stood at the bathroom mirror and did it exactly like she showed me. Twist. Squeeze. Brush. It was cool, a clean little tingle, right on the skin. And I remember thinking it was the first time in four months I'd done something for my hair instead of just watching it go. Week two, nothing I could see. But it took less time than brushing my teeth, so I kept going. Week five, I got out of the shower and looked down, the way I'd looked down every morning since July. It was less. Not nothing. Less. I stood there dripping and stared at it for a full minute. Week nine, I was blow-drying and saw them. Little soft baby hairs along my part and at my temples, standing straight up like they had somewhere to be. Month four, Kerry parted my crown, leaned in, and was quiet for a second. "Told you they were stunned." And I'm still on the injections. Still losing weight. I didn't have to choose. Last week was my nine-month checkup. Dr. Patel weighed me, smiled, and stood up to shake my hand again. Then she stopped, and looked at my hair, which I was wearing down for the first time since July. "Jo. What have you done with your hair?" This time I was the one who couldn't quite look at her. Because I was trying not to cry. If you're reading this, I think you might be where I was. The shots are working. You've done the thing you couldn't do for years. And every morning there's a little bit more of you in the shower drain. Your bloodwork's normal. The gummies aren't working. The Facebook groups tell you it's a small price to pay. And somewhere in the back of your mind, there's a question you haven't dared ask anyone yet. Here's what I wish someone had told me in July: You don't have to choose. Your follicles aren't gone. They're stunned. And nothing you swallow is going to reach them fast enough. If you want to try what I use, it's Veyla. Look for the little brush. They give you sixty days, so if your shower drain doesn't change, you send it back. You did the hard part. Your hair shouldn't be the price. https://tryveyla.com/products/veyla-scalp — Jo P.S. I want to be really straight with you about the money, because I know what it's like to stand in CVS holding another $30 tub, wondering if you're being an idiot again. Veyla comes with a 60-day guarantee. You use it every night for two months. If your shower drain looks the same, if your hair tie still goes around three times, if you just don't believe it's doing anything, you send it back and get your money back. The only thing you can lose is a minute a night. Now think about what waiting actually costs. Every week you wait is another week of picking your hair out of the shower drain before anyone else sees. Another week of wearing it up, of dodging photos, of skipping washes because you can't face it. Another week of those follicles sitting stunned with nothing reaching them, while you swallow gummies that never get past your stomach. And another week closer to the night I had: standing in the kitchen at 11:30 with the pen in your hand and the fridge door open, seriously thinking about throwing away the best thing that's ever happened to your body. I nearly did that. I don't want you to get that close. The guarantee means trying it costs you nothing. Waiting is the only option with a real price, and you pay it every morning in the shower drain. https://tryveyla.com/products/veyla-scalp P.P.S. If you've scrolled straight down here, here's the short version. I lost 41 pounds on the shots. At month four my hair started coming out in handfuls. My bloodwork was normal. $60 of biotin and collagen did nothing. When I asked my doctor if my hair would come back if I stopped the injections, she couldn't give me an answer. It was my hairstylist of eleven years who finally explained it. I was the thirty-second woman on the shots she'd had in her chair. When you lose weight fast, your body rations everything, and hair is last in line. Anything you swallow has to get in line behind your heart, your brain and your liver, and there's nothing left by the time it reaches your scalp. Meanwhile, the shock knocks your follicles into a resting phase. They're not gone. They're stunned. They need help where they actually live: on the scalp, not through your stomach. That's why I stopped swallowing supplements and started brushing the serum straight onto my scalp. And I didn't have to stop taking the injections to do it. P.P.P.S. Here's exactly what happened, so you know what to look for. The first night, a cool, clean tingle on my scalp. The first time in months I'd done something for my hair instead of just watching it go. Week five, less in the shower drain. Not nothing, less. I stood there dripping and stared at it. Week nine, soft little baby hairs along my part and temples. Month four, my hairstylist leaned in and said, "Told you they were stunned." Month nine, my doctor shook my hand again, then stopped and asked me what I'd done with my hair. I was wearing it down for the first time since July. You won't see new hair in a week. Nobody honest will tell you that you will. But you can see the start of it in five weeks, and you can see it in your own bathroom. So do this tonight: take a photo of your shower drain. Take another one five weeks after you start. Put them side by side. Keep the progress. Keep your hair. You don't have to choose. https://tryveyla.com/products/veyla-scalp