I Tried Every Hair Loss Treatment on Myself for 6 Months

"Physician, heal thyself," my wife said, pointing at my crown in our bathroom mirror.

She wasn't wrong. At 38, I'd been dispensing hair loss advice for a decade while my own hairline crept backward and my crown thinned to see-through status. The cognitive dissonance was eating at me – how could I tell patients to "catch it early" when I was actively ignoring my own reflection?

The breaking point came at my nephew's graduation. Someone took a photo from above, outdoors in bright sunlight. When I saw it on Facebook that night, my stomach dropped. My scalp was doing its best impression of a solar panel, gleaming through what I'd been calling "just a cowlick" for the past three years.

I'd been every cliche of denial. "It's just the lighting." "Everyone thins a little with age." "I'm too busy with patients to worry about myself."

But staring at that photo, I knew the truth: I was going bald and too proud to admit it.

The Baseline of Shame

Before starting any treatment, I did what I'd done for hundreds of patients – documented everything. Taking those baseline photos was brutal. Under proper lighting, from every angle, no hiding behind favorable poses. The camera doesn't lie, even when you desperately want it to.

I was solidly Norwood 2.5 pushing toward 3. My crown density measured 45% below normal for my age. Over a third of my follicles showed miniaturization. My DHT levels sat at the high end of normal – not shocking given my family history of gleaming domes.

The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent years reassuring patients that hair loss was nothing to be ashamed of while secretly harboring my own deep embarrassment about it.

Month 1: Going Nuclear

I decided if I was doing this, I'd do it right. Everything I'd ever recommended to patients, I'd try on myself. The daily routine became almost religious: finasteride with breakfast, minoxidil foam morning and night, ketoconazole shampoo every other day. Weekly microneedling sessions that left my scalp angry and red. Twenty minutes under the LED panel while answering emails.

The first week, my scalp protested. The minoxidil made everything itchy and irritated. By week two, the dreaded shed began. I'd warned countless patients about this – "It's your follicles resetting! Totally normal!" – but experiencing it myself was different. Every shower drain clogged with what looked like a small animal's worth of hair.

By week three, I was analyzing every aspect of my body. Was my libido different? Was that morning wood less... woody? Was I imagining things because I'd read too many finasteride horror stories? The mind plays cruel tricks when you're hyperaware of every sensation.

Month 2: The Dark Times

The shed intensified to apocalyptic levels. My pillow looked like a hair crime scene every morning. I started wearing hats to see patients, which was ironic – the hair loss doctor hiding his own hair loss.

I found myself writing in my journal one night: "Is this what I put patients through? This absolute freefall of confidence while waiting for science to kick in?"

The side effects were real but manageable. Minoxidil gave me puffy eyes and dark circles that made me look perpetually exhausted. The finasteride definitely changed things downstream – nothing dramatic, but noticeable. My scalp stayed tender for days after each microneedling session.

But the worst part was the psychological toll. I'd built my identity around being the confident doctor with answers. Now I was just another anxious guy counting hairs in the shower drain.

Month 3: A Glimmer of Hope

Around week ten, something shifted. The shedding slowed from catastrophic to merely concerning. Under bright light, I could see tiny vellus hairs sprouting where there had been bare scalp. My crown looked less like a landing pad and more like... well, thinning hair, but hair nonetheless.

My energy improved dramatically – turns out my vitamin D had been at 18, basically underground. Getting it up to 45 made me feel human again. Who knew that optimizing nutrients actually mattered? (I did. I'd been telling patients for years. Physician, heal thyself indeed.)

Month 4: The Momentum Builds

This is when the magic happened. Those vellus hairs started darkening, thickening, standing at attention like tiny soldiers. My wife stopped lying when she said she could see improvement. The bathroom mirror became less of an enemy.

I had a moment of clarity while doing a consultation with a patient worried about starting finasteride. As I explained the timeline, the commitment required, the potential sides, I realized I was speaking from experience now, not just textbook knowledge. It changed everything about how I practiced.

Month 5: Unexpected Revelations

The physical improvements continued – density up about 30%, hairline stabilized, crown filling in nicely. But the real revelations were psychological.

I understood now why patients got frustrated when I said "just be patient." Four months feels like four years when you're watching your hair fall out. I understood the obsessive photo-taking, the analyzing every angle, the mood swings tied to good and bad hair days.

I also realized I'd been an asshole about side effects. Yes, they're rare. Yes, they're usually mild. But when it's your body, your sexuality, your identity on the line, statistics don't matter. What matters is how YOU feel, and that deserves respect, not dismissal.

Month 6: The Verdict

Standing in the same bathroom where my wife had called me out six months earlier, the difference was undeniable. Not miraculous – I wasn't 22 again – but significant. My crown had gone from see-through to respectable. My hairline held its ground instead of continuing its retreat. Most importantly, I felt like myself again.

The final numbers: 40% increase in density, 70% reduction in miniaturization, and one humbled doctor who finally understood what his patients went through.

What I Learned That Changed My Practice

Going through this journey myself fundamentally changed how I approach hair loss:

First, the emotional impact is real and valid. I used to internally roll my eyes when grown men got teary about their hair. Now I get it. It's not vanity – it's identity, youth, vitality, control. Dismissing those feelings is medical malpractice of the heart.

Second, the timeline is brutal. Four to six months of faith-based treatment while things get worse before they get better requires superhuman patience. I now prepare patients better for this psychological marathon.

Third, side effects aren't just numbers on a page. When I experienced finasteride sides, they were mild and manageable, but they were THERE. Pretending they don't exist or dismissing patient concerns makes us look like gaslighting idiots.

Fourth, the daily routine is exhausting. Twice-daily minoxidil, supplements, special shampoos, weekly procedures – it's a lot. I have new respect for patients who stick with it and new understanding for those who don't.

Finally, success isn't just hair count. It's confidence restored, mirrors faced without flinching, photos taken without strategic angles. Those improvements matter as much as any density measurement.

The Honest Bottom Line

Would I do it again? Absolutely. The combination approach works – I'm living proof. But I'd go in with more realistic expectations and more self-compassion.

To my patients reading this: I get it now. The fear, the frustration, the desperate hope, the daily negotiations with the mirror. I understand why you analyze every hair, every sensation, every change.

Your concerns are valid. Your emotions are justified. And yes, the treatments work – but they work on their timeline, not ours.

Sometimes the best education comes from walking in your patients' shoes. Or in this case, standing in their bathroom, staring at their crown, wondering if today's the day things finally turn around.

It is. Keep going.

P.S. - My wife says she likes the results but misses making bald jokes. I told her to give it ten years. Genetics always wins eventually, but I'll fight the good fight until then.