The Meno Club Facebook ad: “If men got perimenopause, there'd already be cures”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

982603191356152

Platforms

Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network, Messenger and Threads

Relaunches

0

EU reach

54

How we count

Ad text

If perimenopause happened to men, there would be a research institute, a Super Bowl ad, and a pill named after a Greek god. It happens to us. So we get a pamphlet. A shrug. And the word "normal." I'm 43. I want to tell you about the year I decided to actually like perimenopause, right up until the morning it stopped being funny. Here's the part nobody warns you about, and the part I genuinely loved. Somewhere in your forties, in the middle of all the chaos, you stop caring. Not in a sad way. In the best way. I stopped apologizing for things that were never my fault. I stopped making myself smaller at dinner parties. I told my brother-in-law to his face that his joke wasn't funny, and I slept like a baby. They call them the no-fucks forties and they were not lying. Puberty in reverse? Sure. Except the first time around you at least got something out of the deal. This time it's the hot flashes that show up when it's 58 degrees out. The 3am ceiling-staring. The rage that arrives over a half-loaded dishwasher and leaves just as fast. And I could laugh about all of it. Every symptom became a bit. My group chat has a running joke. My husband knows to just hand me a fan and back away slowly. Every symptom except one. The one I have never made a joke about. The one I started locking the bathroom door for, which I hadn't done since the kids were small. It started as nothing. A little more in the brush. A few more strands wound around my fingers in the shower. The kind of thing you tell yourself you're imagining. Then I couldn't tell myself that anymore. The ponytail I'd had since I was a girl had quietly gone from the thickness of a rope to the thickness of a pencil. My part was wider in the mirror than in any photo from two years ago. Under the bathroom light I could see my own scalp looking back at me, and I would stand there angling my head, trying to make it not be true. I didn't tell my husband. I didn't tell the group chat. The thing I couldn't joke about was the thing I couldn't say out loud at all. Because here's what I understood, standing in that bathroom. I could laugh about the hot flashes because they weren't taking anything I was afraid to lose. This was different. This felt like watching myself slowly disappear, and being expected to do it quietly, with a smile, while everyone told me how well I was aging. So I did the responsible thing and booked the doctor. I sat across from her and said it out loud for the first time. She was kind. She really was. And then she said the word I'd been dreading. "Normal." A little thinning. Normal for your age. Try to lower your stress. Maybe a biotin. I was 43, being told to accept watching a part of myself go. The same way the pamphlet told my mother. And her mother, who I suddenly remembered had worn the same sad little bun at the end. That was the moment the rage I opened with actually arrived. Not because the doctor was wrong to be calm. Because nobody, not one person, was willing to look underneath the word "normal." That night I called Lauren. Lauren is a dermatologist, fifteen years of it, and almost all of those years spent on one thing: women whose hair starts thinning the moment their hormones shift. She's the first person I should have called and the last person I actually did. She listened to me for about ninety seconds, then said the thing my doctor never did. "It's not just aging. And it's not stress. It's the estrogen." She explained it the way a friend does, fast and a little annoyed on my behalf. Estrogen had been quietly standing guard over my hair follicles my whole life, keeping the hormones that shrink them from getting anywhere near. Perimenopause is the estrogen pulling back. And when the guard walks off, the same hormonal shift behind the hot flashes and the rage and the 3am gets to my follicles too. It wasn't a deficiency. It wasn't damaged hair. Nothing I'd been buying, the biotin, the collagen, the expensive shampoo, was even aimed at the real thing. "There are two natural compounds that actually work on this part," she said. "Most products only bother with one. That's why most of them do nothing." She sent me a page to read. I'll put it at the bottom for you. It explained far more than I can fit here. The brand she put me on is called Bloom & Bond. Pumpkin seed oil and saw palmetto, the two compounds, together, in one capsule. Not the raw seed powder in a $12 Amazon bottle, and not a saw palmetto built for men's prostates with a pink label slapped on it. The right forms, at doses meant for a woman's body going through exactly this. Nothing that fought my body. Nothing I had to hide from anyone. The first stretch, I felt nothing, and I assumed I'd bought another funeral for my bathroom counter. By week two, the shower drain looked different. Less of it. I sat on the edge of the tub longer than I'd like to admit, not trusting it. By month two, I could pull a brush through my hair once and have it come back close to clean. The first time in over a year I'd washed my hair without my stomach dropping. By month four, there were baby hairs along my hairline. Fluffy, impossible to smooth down, and the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen on my own head. My part wasn't staring back at me under the bathroom light the way it used to. I still have every other symptom, for the record. The fan still lives on my nightstand. The rage still visits. I've made my peace with the friend who rearranged my furniture. But the one thing I couldn't joke about? I don't lock the bathroom door anymore. If you're somewhere in your forties and something has started feeling off, and there's a little more hair in your brush than there used to be, hear the part nobody told me. The thinning doesn't wait for you to be ready. It doesn't pause while you "give it six months." Every month you spend being patient, being told it's normal, is a month that guard stays down and the follicle keeps quietly shrinking while you wait. You don't have to end up in that bathroom with the door locked, angling your head under the light, learning a new way to part your hair so it hides the rest. You can be the woman who caught it at the brush, not the mirror. I caught mine late. You're reading this early. That's the whole difference. Here's the page Lauren sent me. Read it the way I did, at 11pm, hoping it was true. 👉 https://trybloomandbond.com/pages/5-ways-bloom-bond

Where the ad sends people

trybloomandbond.com

If men got perimenopause, there'd already be cures

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