I flew to Turkey for a budget hair transplant. Was it worth it?

I know bald is beautiful — it’s the receding phase that I struggle with. For me, there seems to be less dignity in the helplessness of the dwindling hairline than the intentionality of going full scalp. And yet I wasn’t ready to shave it all off. I wasn’t sure I had the face for it. I braced for the inner work of making peace with my inevitable baldness until last year, when I heard from my friends (and TikTok) about people getting hair transplants in Turkey. Procedures there are thousands of dollars cheaper — and more aggressive, allowing for more densely packed follicles in a single operation. My algorithm fed me so much content about it that I almost felt negligent for not going. After a friend with gorgeous hair gave me the name of his doctor — who came recommended by six other gay men — I decided to give a transplant another try. I whatsapped the office pictures of my head, wired a deposit and was booked for two months later.

At the clinic, the doctor dragged a pencil across my forehead and rattled off numbers to an assistant. After 30 seconds, he squinted and nodded. In the mirror his assistant handed me, I looked at the rough horseshoe the doctor had drawn a quarter of an inch below my hairline. Is this too low? I’d forgotten what hairlines were supposed to look like.

“I don’t want to do too much,” I said, hedging. I’d seen some real botch jobs online — blunt, straight lines so far down the forehead, they were practically leaning against the brow. A friend had warned me, “Don’t bring it any lower than God originally gave you.”

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The assistant had me raise my eyebrows and showed me how the new hairline wouldn’t even come close to the forehead muscles. “This is very good,” he said, smiling. “Very natural.”

My eyes were wet. This all felt rushed and rudimentary. “I just want to double-check with my friend,” I mumbled as I took selfies of the area — you can’t really “undo” a procedure like this. I had more questions, but the doctor was already brushing past me. From the doorway he called, “This is going to be a very beautiful result.” This was the first and last time I’d see the doctor. His assistant noticed my nerves and reassured me. “Don’t worry. He is the architect. We are the builders,” he said.

We walked past a bar where balding men sipped tea. A few had bandaged or bloody scalps, a grim reminder of my future. In a back office, I handed over £2,280 in cash. This covered both my procedure and four nights of lodging. Including my flight and deposit, I spent about £3,680 in total. (The hair transplant I had undergone in Los Angeles cost £6,550 for fewer grafts.)

My adrenaline was too high to read many of the forms they handed me. I tried to ignore a section that began, “It is possible for the transplanted hair to become thinner …” and signed on the bottom line.

I was told to look out for details on WhatsApp ahead of my procedure the next day. Everything had been communicated at the last minute through encrypted messages, which lent the whole operation the illicit air of a drug deal. This might have felt thrilling if I were in a better mood.

I spent the afternoon contemplating calling off the whole thing. I felt silly for coming all this way — for engaging in medical tourism as the world burns. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a fool’s errand, just another sticking plaster on problems that would never really go away: my self-worth, vanity and anxiety about ageing. Hoping to clear my mind, I walked the streets of Istanbul. Everywhere I went, I saw men with bloody heads. I nodded to them in solidarity while wondering if we’d all lost our minds.

I received instructions to meet at 7am in the lobby of the budget hotel in which they’d put me (a far cry from the luxury suites I’d seen on TikTok). I went to bed early, but jolted awake several times with racing thoughts of an irrevocably bungled hairline. I was still awake when I heard the morning call to prayer echoing from the nearest mosque. I tallied the cost of the trip to get me out of bed.

The clinic was full of activity as I waited on a bench. I asked a guy beside me, “Have you seen what they call this place online?”

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He perked up. “A hair farm?”

“What do you think about that?”

“I mean, sure,” he said. “But I wanted a hair farm. I think the people who say, ‘I want something more personal — I want to get to know the doctor and I want the doctor to do the procedure,’ are kidding themselves.” His logic was that the more rote the transplant, the better. “I want a team that’s been doing this day in and day out for years. It’s muscle memory for them.”

This guy has it all figured out, I thought, feeling more at ease.

After my name was called, a nurse took pictures of my head in front of a branded backdrop, like a clinical step and repeat. Then she sheared me like a sheep. I was close to tears again but I told myself to get a grip.

In the operating room, they hooked all sorts of cords to me. A young woman in a crop top introduced herself as my translator. She explained that they’d do extractions from the back of my head, break for lunch, then finish with transplants up front. The process would last about six hours. I’d be under light general anaesthetic — awake, but sleepy.

I flipped onto my stomach and put my face into a doughnut cushion. They administered numbing injections to the back of my scalp. From there, I don’t remember much of the morning before they wheeled over a plastic-wrapped sandwich and a pill, but I was starving. After lunch, a different doctor checked out my head. With my buzzcut, the pencilled hairline looked sensible — necessary, even.

“Let’s do it,” I said. I feel like we all clapped.

Was I supposed to be this awake?

The transplantation process ticked by. There was no music playing. All I had to distract me from the prickly sounds of the grafting was the nurses’ lively conversation in Turkish.

I wondered if I was meant to be this awake. I debated saying something but worried I’d interrupt the nurses’ flow. I tried to calculate how long it would take to relocate 2,950 grafts at an average of 15 per minute, but I’ve never been good at maths. I did a few countdowns. I tried breathing techniques. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I raised my hand. The nurses stopped giggling and asked, “Pain?”

“No, no, I’d just like to talk to the translator,” I said. After a few minutes, a different translator entered. He was stunning. I felt better already.

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“Pain?” he asked.

“No, I’m just …” How do I put this? “I feel very awake.”

“Being awake is good,” he said. He touched my arm. “You’re almost finished. About an hour left.” I wanted him to stay with his hand on me, but he said he’d be back soon. I resumed my breathing exercises until they taped the back of my head like a FedEx package, sat me up and handed me another pill. Hundreds of little red dots protruded from my scalp. I looked like that spider doll from Toy Story. I assumed that was normal, but what did I know?

I sent selfies to everyone I’ve ever known

In my hotel room, I sent selfies to everyone I’ve ever known. Some people claimed I looked good with a shaved head, blood aside. If only I’d heard that before my flight. I woke in the night to intense pain all round my head, but by the morning it was gone. Back at the clinic, they removed the bandages, cleaned my head and gave me a “laser treatment”, which just meant sitting under a red light for ten minutes.

As I got up from the chair, I bumped my head against the machine. I screamed, certain I’d ruined everything. The nurse ran over and examined the area. She said I was fine; I didn’t damage the grafts. I wasn’t convinced, but we had to move on.

In a room with three other patients, the translator recited post-operative care instructions at an auctioneer’s pace. Apply a special shampoo after three days, avoid alcohol and sex for five, sleep in an elevated position for seven. You can wear a loose-fitting hat after 10 days, but no helmets or beanies for 45. Cardio after 15 days, but no strength training for 30.

On my way out, I mentioned that I was curious about PRP (platelet-rich plasma) and exosome treatments for hair loss too. The words had barely left my mouth when the translator said, “I can take you there now.” Within minutes, another doctor was injecting another syringe into my head. This one was full of my own plasma and some plant-based stem cells. Don’t ask me about the science, because I simply don’t know. It cost an additional £550, which ChatGPT assured me was a fraction of what the price would be in the US. When in Istanbul …

My new obsession? Low-level laser therapy

I was ushered into an airport van with a data analyst from Denver. I imagined we’d look like quite a pair walking through security, but we were just two of many bloody-scalped men carrying luggage. No one cared.

Back home, I isolated myself in my apartment for two weeks, scabbing and worrying about all the post-op guidelines. I made soup and panicked — what if the steam loosened the grafts? I found solace in the r/HairTransplants forum on Reddit. One post asked if a transplant could be ruined by sneezing or masturbating too soon. It ended with, “I need to see a shrink tbh.” I clicked to register my approval.

I’m now four months post-procedure. My mother says she’s happy I can finally put this behind me, but I don’t feel so sure. I can’t expect any real results for six months to a year, but every day I stare at my hair in the mirror and analyse its progress. The transplanted area seems to be filling in nicely, but now I fixate on the mid-scalp. It still looks thin to me, and I worry it’ll only get worse with age.

In the meantime, I’ve developed a new obsession: low-level laser therapy. Limited studies on rats show it can improve hair density. I just have to commit to wearing a helmet for ten minutes a day for the rest of my life. I ordered one for £560. When the cap arrived, I placed it delicately on my head and waited. I can’t see anything changing yet, but I know these things take time. This, I’m sure, will save me.

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