Eyebrow Transplants

My eyebrows are thin and taper to an abrupt end. I don’t look at pictures of Natalia Vodianova and think I could have those thick, swooping brows, which act like an exclamation point above her exquisite, cat-like face. I’m not unrealistic. I’d settle for the commonplace. I’d like to leave the house without wearing make-up, without caking on mascara because otherwise my painted brows look odd and heavy on a naked face. I’d like to pull my hair back in a ponytail and stop hiding behind a fringe. I’d like to give my eyebrows no thought at all. In fact, for once, I’d be delighted to just be ordinary.

And so I find myself lying face down on a bed in a clean, white room while Dr Andrea Tchalakov begins her surgery. The shape of my new eyebrows has been outlined with purple felt-tip pen. I’ve taken antibiotics, painkillers, pills to stop swelling and a sedative. An inch-wide strip has been shaved from the back of my head, from ear to ear – I'm assured no one will be able to see this bald patch, as it’ll be hidden by my long layers. Worst of all, I’ve had local anaesthetic injected across the shaved area in a handful of tiny, excruciating pin pricks so that 750 hair follicles can be extracted, one at a time. After the hair for transplant is removed, the real work begins. I turn over and have more local anaesthetic injected, this time across my brows. And this time it hurts even more. Dr Andrea slowly and precisely makes angled incisions – 350 on each brow – where new hair will go. Then the extracted follicles are put into each of the 700 holes, one at a time. I start counting, then give up. Time passes, slowly. I’m not willing it to be over, though. Not at all. These few hours are going to change the way I look forever.
All I feel immediately afterwards is shock. I put on my biggest Bottega Veneta sunglasses and hurry home, clutching antibiotics and a spray of saline solution. I have to use this on my brows every 30 minutes for several days. I have strict instructions not to touch the area, sleep on my front or scratch. I can’t expose my face to the sun or rain for a fortnight. I can’t do anything, in short, which might kill off those precious little hairs.
I look terrible. I actually look shocking. My brows are bright red and spotted with blood, while huge bruises are beginning to darken my swollen eyes. I can’t bear to look in the mirror. My boyfriend can’t bear to look at me.
The next few days are a nightmare. I don’t leave the house without sunglasses and a hat. I don’t leave the house much at all. I ache all over. My face hurts, my shoulders, my back. The hours of lying prone and tense have done that. My brows are fading to pink but my eyes are now purple.
Then, finally, I can wash my face again, rinse off the crusty blood and scabbed skin and stray hairs. For the next two months I will use baby shampoo on my eyebrows, morning and night. It itches. It will be four weeks before the bruises fade away. But I’m starting to look normal. Although I don’t really look normal – I look like someone different. I can look in the mirror again but I don’t recognise myself any more. I look like someone with perfect eyebrows.

Harley Street Hair Clinic, London, W1. Enq (020) 7177 2345

www.hshairclinic.co.uk.

Eyebrow reconstruction starts from £2,000-£3,000

Click here to read about semi-permanent eyebrow treatments