I’ve battled with PCOS my entire adult life. For years, I managed to stay on top of it, maintaining a healthy weight, staying active, fighting sugar spikes like it was a second job. But one side effect has shadowed me since my early 20s: hair loss.
And let’s be real, PCOS doesn’t exactly come with a user manual.
PCOS: The Cliff Notes
If you’re not familiar, PCOS is a hormonal condition that can bring irregular periods, high androgens, ovarian cysts, and a whole load of chaos. (If you want the medical deep dive, Mayo Clinic has a good PCOS overview here, and here’s the NHS PCOS guide).
But here’s the lived experience:
- Food tracking becomes a lifelong sport.
- Sugar spikes feel like secret landmines.
- Cravings can roar louder than common sense.
- And hair loss? That’s the visible scar.
Managing it has meant decades of weighing food, logging calories, building protein and fibre-packed meals, short walks after eating every single meal, and weightlifting between meetings. I even had a squat rack in my lounge. While the NHS shrugged and muttered “try not to put on weight,” I was fighting a private war.
The Pain They Don’t See
There were nights I curled up in bed, toes clenched against the agony of an ovarian cyst bursting. No painkillers touched it. And if I’d dragged myself to A&E? I’d be treated like I was being dramatic. Don’t ask me how I know.
“Could you be pregnant by any chance?” doctors would ask. I’d laugh bitterly: “Have you seen the state of my ovaries?”
The pain was real. The dismissiveness was realer.
When Menopause Crashed the Party
Through sheer bloody-mindedness, I kept my weight in check… until perimenopause hit at 40. Then? Boom. Five stone gained almost overnight. HRT stopped the runaway train, but losing it? Impossible.
To shift even a pound, I had to eat under 1,000 calories a day. Cue migraines so brutal I couldn’t get out of bed. Meanwhile, my bloodwork was painting a grim picture: pre-diabetes, fatty liver disease, and my hair thinning by the month.
Enter: Mounjaro
In March 2025, I started GLP-1 medication (Mounjaro). Day one was a revelation. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t battling sugar spikes.
I didn’t realise how not normal I’d felt until suddenly, I felt normal. My finely tuned nutrition habits finally had backup, and the weight started shifting. By June, I was down nearly three stone.
But the cruel twist? My hair loss sped up too.
The Wig Decision
When I was first told I had androgenetic hair loss in my 20s, I made myself a promise: no “ageing gracefully,” no going quietly.
If I had to live with a hormonal condition that modern medicine can’t fix, then I was damn well going to have fun with it.
So here we are.
Wigs aren’t a last resort, they’re a rebellion. They’re me taking control, finally getting to play with hairstyles I never had the luxury of growing myself. They’re glitter, drama, choice.
And I’m not hiding it.
Why I’m Speaking Up
The behind-the-scenes war with PCOS has always been invisible. Doctors didn’t see it. Friends didn’t see it. Society only saw the weight, judged my body, and assumed laziness. Hair loss? That’s the one visible clue.
But wigs? Wigs are loud. Wigs start conversations.
So I’m wearing them proudly, not just because I want fabulous hair, but because I want to break the silence around PCOS, around women’s hair loss, around how little support we’re given.
I’ve paid out of pocket for every nutritionist who’s helped me. The NHS offered nothing but dismissiveness. And yet here I stand.
Blood, sweat, tears, wigs, and all.
This isn’t just hair. This is my story, my battle, my crown.
