The Meno Club Facebook ad: “Perimenopause and Ho*ny”

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1757600065695451

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Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network, Messenger and Threads

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0

EU reach

175

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Ad text

Deep in perimenopause, hor*ier than I'd been in twenty years. But I couldn't let my own husband see me with the lights on. I have to back up, because the part you actually need is the part I'm ashamed of. For about five years before this, my husband and I were roommates. Not fighting. Worse than fighting. Polite. He'd say goodnight from his side of the bed, I'd say it back, and that was the whole marriage. I wasn't angry at him. I just felt nothing. Somewhere in my early forties a switch flipped, and the woman who used to grab him in the kitchen quietly left the building. He stopped reaching for me because I stopped reaching back. After enough years of that, you forget you were ever the kind of people who couldn't keep your hands off each other. A neighbor we'd lived next to for years once asked me, kindly, if I lived alone. I said no, I'm married, he just works a lot. That was a lie. He was home every night. I'd just started talking about him like a man who wasn't there anymore. Then, the spring I turned forty-seven, something came back. I can't explain it any other way than to say the volume came back on. I'd be standing at the counter, catch him walking past, and feel sixteen. A barista I'd seen twice flirted with me and I drove home warm and rattled and thought about my husband the rest of the afternoon. I looked it up later, half embarrassed, and found a whole room full of women describing the exact same thing. A surge, some of them called it. A last hurrah. The body turning the lights back on one final time before they go out for good. For the first time in five years, I wanted my husband. And I had no idea what to do with it. Because the same season the wanting came back, something else started. Small at first. A little more in the drain than usual. I told myself it was the season. Then the part down the middle of my head looked, in a certain light, a hair wider than it used to be. Then I leaned over to load the dishwasher one night, caught the back of my head in the black of the oven door, and didn't recognize how much scalp I could see through it. So here was the joke the universe decided to play. I finally wanted to be wanted again. And I could not stand to be looked at. I started getting undressed in the dark. I wore my hair up, a certain way, so the part wouldn't show. The first time he reached for me in years, I turned the lamp off before I let him close, and told myself it was romantic. It wasn't romantic. I was hiding. I had the one thing I'd waited five years for, and I was spending it pretending to be tired. He took the lamp for a no. Of course he did. He went quiet again. And I lay there next to my own husband, wanting him, with my hair knotted up so he wouldn't see the back of my head, thinking: this is the chance my body handed back to me, and I'm going to waste it over a widening part. I did what everyone does. Biotin, the big bottle. Nothing. Nutrafol, three months, a couple hundred dollars, an itchy scalp. Nothing. Rosemary oil off the internet that left my pillow smelling like a roast. I waited two months for a dermatologist who looked at the top of my head for about forty seconds, told me it was hormonal, it was just menopause, and said I could try Rogaine if it bothered me that much. I didn't try Rogaine. I'd read enough to know it's a tap you can never turn off, and I wasn't signing up for one more thing I'd have to do forever. So I gave up. I told myself I'd made peace with it. I hadn't. I'd just run out of the energy it takes to keep being upset. What changed it was a friend. She's an OB-GYN. The kind of woman who tells you the truth at a kitchen table that your own doctor won't tell you in an office. She watched me tuck my hair behind my ear for the third time, put her wine down, and said, stop. I know exactly what that is. She told me the part nobody says out loud: the hair isn't a separate problem from everything else. It's the same problem. When your estrogen drops, and in perimenopause it's already dropping, you lose the thing that was shielding your follicles. Once that shield is down, a hormone called DHT starts shrinking them. Same hormone behind men going bald, she said. We have it too. We just had cover for it our whole lives, right up until now. The hot flashes, the moods, the rest of the stuff everyone warns you about, that's the half you can see. The hair is the half nobody connects to any of it. And unlike a hot flash, it doesn't pass on its own. Then she told me what she actually puts her own patients on. Bloom and Bond. The reason the drugstore aisle did nothing for me, she said, is that none of it touches DHT. Biotin doesn't. The gummies don't. This does, two ways at once. One part slows your body from making the DHT. The other keeps it off the follicle. She told me to make sure it was the real version. Cold-pressed, the actual dose, not the watered-down stuff off a marketplace and not the dried-out berry powder that does nothing. The two ingredients are pumpkin seed oil and saw palmetto, and she said she'd explain the why for as long as I wanted, but the short version was just: this is the one I'd take. I ordered it at the table. I didn't research it. I was so tired of losing. Week three, there was less in the drain. I almost didn't trust it. By week six I'd stopped checking the drain at all, which I didn't even realize I'd been doing every single morning until I wasn't. A couple of months in, there were these little wispy hairs coming in along the part. Baby hairs. The kind you only get when something is actually growing. My hairdresser caught it before I said a word. She lifted the top section and went, oh, you've got a whole new layer coming in under here. And one morning I was getting ready under the bright bathroom light, the light I'd been ducking for a year, and I just got ready. I didn't angle away from the mirror. I forgot to. I'll tell you the night I knew. We were heading out, and I'd left my hair down. Actually down. He came into the bathroom for something, and he stopped. He looked at me the way he used to look at me, before we were roommates, before any of it. He didn't say anything. He just looked. And for the first time in years, I didn't turn the light off. I let him look. What happened after that is mine. I'll only say this. It felt like getting away with something. With my own husband. In our own house. Like an affair where both people happen to be married to each other. A few weeks later a woman behind me in line asked who does my color. Nobody had asked me a single thing about my hair in three years. I laughed out loud and she thought I was strange. So here's why I'm telling you this, if you're still reading. If you're somewhere in your early forties. If your hair is still full, your part is still thin, and you look in the mirror and still see you. If the worst of it so far is being more tired than your life explains, sleeping badly, snapping at people, that quiet feeling that you don't quite feel like yourself. That's the window. That's the doorway I was standing in and didn't know it. The one where nothing looks wrong yet. The surge is probably coming for you too. That part is wonderful. But the same drop that brings it is already, quietly, starting to lower the cover on your hair. Years before you'd ever notice. You can protect it now, while there's nothing to fix. Or you can wait until you're getting undressed in the dark, wanting your husband, with your hair in a knot so he won't see. I waited. It came back, and I'm grateful for that every day. But I'd give a lot to have started in the window you're standing in right now. Bloom and Bond. Two capsules a day. Start before you need it.

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Perimenopause and Ho*ny

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