In support of National Trichotillomania Awareness Week (that's now!), here's what struggling with the disorder is really like.

Garren, Frédéric Fekkai, Mark Townsend—I've avoided hair appointments with some of the most iconic stylists in the business. Considering that I interview them all the time in my job as a beauty writer, this has involved a serious amount of subterfuge. By now, I'm sure every top hairstylist in New York City thinks that I either moonlight as a flight attendant ("I'd love to, but I'll be traveling") or have an unhealthy S&M relationship with my regular stylist, Sheila Chung of Mingle ("Oh, I only let Sheila touch my hair"). Well, here's the truth. Nunzio, I'd love a haircut. Lori Foley, I dream of rainbow ombré. But I've been hiding my trichotillomania from you and everyone else.

Trichotillomania—derived from the Greek words "trich" (hair), "tillo" (to pull), and "mania" (frenzy)—is also known to non-classics majors as hairpulling disorder. Scientists aren't sure what causes it, but recently it's been officially categorized by the psychiatric profession with other body-focused repetitive behavior disorders, like compulsive skin picking and nail biting. It affects up to 4 percent of Americans, 90 percent of them women. Those of us who have it feel an overwhelming urge to pull our hair, which results in visible bald spots and general feelings of mortification. When trich (pronounced "trick"—that's what we call it) gets media coverage, it's usually in a sideshow-y, My Strange Addiction kind of way. Come one, come all to see nature's mistake—The Girl Who Pulled Out All Her Hair! Well, it's nice to meet you, too.

If you are in the 96 percent of Americans who can't fathom why anyone would do something so potentially disfiguring to themselves, let me give you a sense of what it's like to have trich. Have you ever found yourself twirling your hair when preoccupied or nervous? Or had a strong urge to tweeze a spiky eyebrow hair? I feel that sensation pretty much all the time—only on crack, or dabs, or whatever it is drug dealers are cooking up with butane right now that's making trailers explode. The nagging feeling is always there, barely perceptible at first, emanating from the crown of my head, just left of center. It's been a constant source of annoyance and discomfort since I was 12 years old. Once scratched, it just gets itchier, so to speak. My left pointer finger is callused from years of repeatedly gripping at wispy little sprouts of regrowth. I seek out the textured hairs with my fingers and, weirdly enough, often don't even notice I'm doing it. I actually lose time—sometimes hours—seeking out the right hairs and plucking them one by one. (No, it doesn't hurt. For me, the plucking is a relief, like a release of pressure.) Eventually, I snap out of my trance with a mound of black hairs at my feet.