I've been using Donald Trump's hair loss treatment for years – here is the truth about its side effects
It’s not every day you discover you have something in common with the President of the Free World. But the recent revelation (courtesy of his GP, no less – what happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?!) that Donald Trump has been safeguarding his bizarre bouffant with finasteride made us brothers-in-arms.
I’ve been taking the same tiny pills for years. And – so far – without significant health problems. The Trump connection prompted a clutch of articles outlining the possible side effects of the drug, including a study from Western University this week that suggested taking the pills could increase a user's risk of depression and self-harm. There's also often talk of sexual complications too, including the loss of libido and impotence.
Dig even deeper on medical advice portals and there’s more to terrify you.
“Chills, cold sweats and confusion”, they'll say; “hives or welts” and “breast enlargement and tenderness”, even. Everything's there, from the mundane (“runny nose”) to the unimaginable (“abnormal ejaculation”).
What are The Donald and I thinking? What makes us so afraid of baldness that we’re willing to risk our mental and physical wellbeing?
I recall nothing of anger, suicide or engorged breasts, but something else did come up. I should not take the pills if I’m looking to start a family...
While I can’t speak for Trump, I sincerely believe my fears are simple. Primal, in fact. I want to remain attractive to the opposite sex. I don’t want to end up old, bald, and alone.
A tiny fraction of women may find slapheads “virile”, while others will blithely state in public that “it makes no difference,” but the evidence suggests otherwise. One 2009 study suggested women were five times more likely to date a man with hair, while in 2015 a chap called Richard King sold his story to the tabloids when his Tinder matches doubled after a transplant.
Yes, a handful of men are able pull off the bald look. But I bear no obvious resemblance to Vin Diesel. I need my mop.
I’ve always known that my future would involve hair loss. Grandfathers? Both bald as coots by the age of 30. As a young lad I used to cruelly tease my maternal grandpa by sneaking up behind him and spraying Mr Sheen on his dome. My father held out a few years longer, before morphing into a portlier version of Bruce Willis. My uncle, likewise.
Therefore, having long been on the lookout for a possible escape route, my heart leapt when Boots began advertising its Hair Retention Programme several years ago.
I’d laughed at ads for hair in a can and winced at the cost of the Advanced Hair Studio treatment (endorsed by Shane Warne and co), but here was a reputable high street stalwart flogging a relatively affordable (£30 a month) treatment that promised to halt hair loss “nine times out of 10”, with a few patients even experiencing regrowth.
The thinning process atop my noggin was at an early stage, but it had surely begun. The strands on the pillow and in the plug hole attested to that, so I bravely asked the pharmacist for a consultation. Given that rap sheet of side effects, getting hold of the drugs was surprisingly simple. We talked through the costs, she took a photo of my head from above - for future reference, so I could see if the pills are working – and, yes, we discussed some of the “unlikely” side effects.
I recall nothing of anger, suicide or engorged breasts, but something else did come up. I should not take the pills if I’m looking to start a family, I was told, as there is some evidence linking finasteride with birth defects. Slightly worrying, but I was young and single. Then she mentioned impotence, and my brow furrowed. “How unlikely?” I gulped. Nevertheless, I vowed to give them a go (what does impotence matter if you’re an undateable baldie?), offering the pharmacist assurances that I would keep a keen eye on any negative developments.
Fortunately, there have been no such problems. No unexplained fits of rage. No sweating or confusion. No… you get the picture.
Initially, I was a little coy about my new medicine. In the flat I shared with a couple of red-blooded lads, I took care not to leave my Propecia packets lying around. Not least because, with each pill assigned its own day of the week, the untrained eye might think I was popping oestrogen.
My fears are simple. Primal, in fact. I want to remain attractive to the opposite sex
But I soon stopped worrying, and before long was telling all and sundry – even first dates – about my new miracle cure.
Which brings me to a burning question: do they actually work?
To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. They promise to (most of the time) stop hair falling out, but only a small number of patients experience regrowth. I still had reasonable coverage when I began the treatment, but it was starting to go. And the same situation applies today.
I like to think I’ve frozen time, and had I not signed up, I’d be looking like Ben Kingsley today. But perhaps total hair loss wasn’t on the horizon, and I’ve done nothing but risk my health and throw away a small fortune. Because, though £30 a month sounds cheap, it really adds up. Six years on and I’ve spent… £2,160. What of the thousands more I’ll spend in the future? I’m 33 now. If I live to 80, maintaining this barnet is going to set me back at least £16,920 (or likely much more with inflation). Is that a price worth paying for a full head of hair?
And of those mental and physical side effects, what if they had revealed themselves? Good health is far more important than having hair. It’s a no-brainer. In that case, of course, I’d have stopped taking the pills... and paid a visit to the Advanced Hair Studio.
