What concerns you,
finally clear.

A white patch on my hand. At first they figured a fungus; the cream did nothing, and the patch spread. It took three dermatologists before one said the word: vitiligo. And in the same breath, that there wasn't much to be done. The right dermatologist, though. I dug her up myself, buried in a student's thesis.

I was bracing for laser sessions. What I needed was a cream, less friction, a little sun.

Three years searching. Five months to be done.

At thirty, my hairline was receding just like my father's. On one side, a minoxidil prescription, and nothing around it. On the other, transplants, pitched everywhere as the answer. No one to tell me where to start.

I had no idea you could try treatments first, before turning to surgery.

It took me a year to connect the pieces on my own.

Thirty-six, and acne along my jaw that wouldn't quit. I tried it all: the creams, the serums off Instagram, the 'miracle' supplements. Hundreds of euros, and the same skin every time.

I kept treating the surface, over and over, never knowing to look underneath.

The specialist who caught the hormonal cause, I found on my own. Too late, after years of spending for nothing.