I have no idea how to draw on eyebrows. I'm not sure if it's something I should've sat down and learned early on. When I was 11 and getting fitted for my first wig by Miss Peggy Tom, she put a plastic stencil to my face and brushed dark brown powder to create an arched brow – first on the left, then on the right.

It didn't look good. Miss Peggy, with her wide smile and bright eyes, assured me I was beautiful, but that it was also my choice. She let me go home with the eyebrow kit anyways and told my mom to let me try it if I wanted to.

I tried – once – and it looked terrible. The brows were uneven and the powder began to smear almost immediately after I removed the second stencil. I immediately washed it off and went back to studying celebrities' faces on magazine covers in the grocery store, hoping it would inspire me to try again.

Backstage at school plays, when the volunteer moms would cake on the wrong foundation and try to glop mascara onto my thinning lashes, my lack of brows became something to argue about: I didn't want anyone to draw them on me, no matter how "good" they thought they could make them look. (Honestly, I just didn't trust anyone!) As a kid, my aunt suggested I get eyebrows tattooed on so I'd look "normal." In 2013, despite my protests, a professional makeup artist convinced me to let her draw on brows before a TV appearance.

"You'll just look better," she said.

Are you sensing a pattern for what came next? I hated it, of course, and asked her to remove them. She did, but for the rest of the time I sat in her chair, she made comments about ways I could look more "complete."

Sometimes I look at my reflection and still see the things first that are missing from my face, the things that make me "incomplete." Most days, though, I'm perfectly happy with the image staring back at me and I truly have no interest in trying to keep drawn-on brows above my eyes or fake lashes glued to my lids. I used to think I had no choice and that those were things I needed in order to "look complete." But it's not what makes me comfortable. It's not really me.

A couple years ago, I was co-hosting a show online and in the comments section for a clip posted to Facebook, someone wrote: "Does she not have eyebrows??"

I responded that I didn't, and that I have alopecia. "It's a choice," I wrote, "but I'm happy with it!"

The original poster came back quickly with a reply and said she loved the look. She herself chose to shave her own eyebrows off for cosplaying purposes, she said.

It made me smile. I'm glad I made the choice too.

Credits: @alopeciamua, Olivia Mowry/USC, Lisa Lefkowitz

One of the most common questions about alopecia I've gotten is: "Why do you wear a wig?"

It's funny, because 20 years ago, the answer would've been a no brainer. I started wearing wigs because I didn't want to be bullied anymore or stared at everywhere I went. I was never equipped with what to say when someone asked me why my hair was falling out, and I definitely wasn't equipped with the confidence on how to say it.

These days, the answer is a little more complicated. I've been lucky to get to meet others with alopecia and to interact with the parents and guardians of children with alopecia too. Many of them choose to go without wigs, and a lot of the public media about individuals with alopecia often showcases how "bald and beautiful/proud/strong" they are.

In the past when I would see that, I used to feel bad about myself because it felt like I wasn't beautiful/proud/strong if I was "hiding" under a wig. How could I be an out and loud alopecian if I'm wearing a wig every day?


But then I discovered Molly Burke on YouTube, a vlogger who is blind, and I loved how candid she was in her videos about her disability and the highs and lows that come with representing that community too. In her videos, she talks often about how there are different ways to represent her community and how blindness – the experience of it and the outward appearance of it too – is different from person to person. The stereotype we often see in movies and TV of a blind person who wears sunglasses and uses a walking stick is not always how blind people appear or engage in the world. And it doesn't make someone any less blind if they don't appear that way.

I thought about how that applies to alopecia: there isn't one way to be an alopecian. These days, I don't see wearing a wig as "hiding" anymore. I wear wigs because it's what I've done for 18 years and it's what makes me comfortable. It doesn't mean I'm not proud to be an alopecian; it's just a preference. I like being able to try new styles and change my appearance day-to-day. (It's also why I like makeup: it's just a different avenue to express myself!)

There are so many ways alopecia manifests itself: some people lose all their hair, others only lose it in patches (or some have diffuse alopecia). However it presents, and however we choose to present ourselves to the outside world, it doesn't take away that we are alopecians. That part of our identity (and I do see it as an identity) doesn't go away because our alopecia is or isn't visible.

If you have alopecia, you have alopecia. The amount of hair on your head doesn't define whether or not you're part of this community. The way you choose to express your alopecia doesn't change that you are a part of this community.

The last time there was a photo of me with my natural hair on my head, I was 12.

I cried a lot before picture day that year. I wanted to stay at home or ask if the yearbook photographer could use my photo from last year instead. That was a battle I lost, but I did get to wear a dress I loved and, for the first time, got to wear lip gloss to school.

I've always loved makeup, but never felt like it was "for me." In all of the magazines where they taught you how to do your makeup, the tutorials always featured girls with light skins and large eyelids. For school plays, the moms who volunteered to do makeup never knew what to do with girls like me and I always came out too pale or with various eye products smeared down my cheeks.

And then my hair started to fall out and no one, including my family, knew what to do with me at all. I believed that makeup was for covering up flaws, and there weren't enough products in the world to fix what I felt everyone was implying was "wrong" with me.

But I wanted to wear makeup. I wanted to feel as confident and as beautiful as the girls in the magazines, and I wanted to be able to look in a mirror or at a photograph and not hate what I saw. If you saw my school photos between 1999 and 2001, you'd be shocked at how suddenly the smile disappeared: 5th grade was the last time I took a photo with a somewhat-full head of hair. By 2000, the wisps that remained were covered by headscarves, and when junior high came, I refused to leave the house without a wig.

Through all of that, and all through high school, I would still scan through Seventeen and Teen People, and I would wander up and down the makeup aisles at Target and wished I knew how to use the products that gave those other girls their smiles.

The moment, for me, where it started to change was 2006 during a cycle 6 episode of America's Next Top Model. The contestants had a challenge where they wore bald caps to model Swarovski crystals – and those photos were gorgeous. I suddenly felt seen in a very real and very visible way. I didn't have to just be "the bald girl." Maybe I could also be a CoverGirl?

In the early days of experimenting with products (both bought from drugstores and "borrowed" from my mom's Shiseido stash), I had plenty of missteps and I still cringe when I see those photos buried in albums and in boxes at my parents' house. Thank God for YouTube tutorials and blogs to guide me through college – those were the first times I ever saw someone who looked like me putting on makeup, teaching, talking about products that worked and didn't work. It was like a whole new world that I didn't think I could ever enjoy.

And that was something that took me awhile to fully understand: it is a world to be enjoyed. I started to see that makeup wasn't about hiding behind something. Just like putting on a good pair of shoes or a T-shirt you love, makeup is about expressing yourself. It can be fun. It should be fun.

I think that's partially why I started @alopeciamua: to experiment, to play, and to hopefully reach at least one person out there who's thought their whole life that they needed makeup to "fix" them. For my entire life, I've never fussed with fake eyebrows or fake eyelashes or eyelid tape, even though those would've helped me get on the path toward what I'm told is "normal" and "beautiful."

For the first time in nearly 20 years, I'm starting to feel good again. The photo set above represents that: these words were just some of the things I was called growing up, and I no longer want to let those things hold power over me anymore. It's been 17 years since I last let there be a photograph of me without a wig, and this account is just one small step toward reclaiming who I am.

A post shared by Trey (@alopeciamua) on Jul 26, 2018 at 4:12pm PDT

I suffer from a chapped lip problem, and sometimes it's felt like there was no solution aside from slathering balm on every hour. But after sitting down to really do my research (and by that, I mean that I watched a lot of YouTube videos), I've found a few staples that have changed my lip care routine and have made wearing lipsticks more comfortable and less messy.

Along with drinking more water, these are the products that have saved my chapped lips this winter:

Lip Facial Lip Scrub by Tarte

I had been using the Lush lip scrub, but lately it just hadn't been doing the trick. The sugar would go on and just crumble right off without taking away any of the dead skin. But what's great about the Tarte Lip Facial is that it's also a hydrating balm that leaves a cooling finish after the sugar is gone. I also love that it's in a crayon format.

Agave Lip Mask by Bite Beauty

I got this as a sample a few weeks ago and gave it a try after hearing good things about it from a few Beauty Gurus, and they weren't kidding: this stuff is the definition of recovery and replenishing. There are four colors – three which give you a slight tint, but I've gone with the natural since I put it on before bed – which are a great alternative to a gloss when your lips are feeling particularly dry. Since using this, I've noticed a massive improvement in my lips when I wake up: they look healthier and there's definitely less chapping.

Brazilian Kiss Cupuacu Lip Butter by Sol de Janeiro

This lip balm is so addicting – it smells amazing and it's left my lips feeling incredibly soft. The addition of coconut oil feels extra moisturizing, and after the nighttime ritual of the Tarte Lip Facial and Agave Lip Mask, this lip butter has been all I need in the morning to keep my lips hydrated all day.

Rose Lollipop Lip Balm by Lush

This was on my 2016 favorites list, and I still stand by it (even if I'm still not crazy about using a potted lip balm). Even though I've been reaching for the Sol de Janerio Lip Butter lately, this is still a fantastic lip balm staple that's a year-round favorite.

What lip care products are you using this winter?

It's been two years, but there's something that still bothers me: one night in 2011, before a midnight showing of this horrible movie I was dragged into seeing, the conversation somehow turned to ethnicity and how much I had in common with another girl in our group of moviegoers--a  girl of Vietnamese descent.

"Well, you're both pretty whitewashed," the guy I arrived with, who knew us both, said.

I sat up a little straighter and prepared to bite back, refusing to accept this label from someone who, while I was close to at the time, seemed wholly unaware how offensive that statement was. But before I could say anything, the other girl laughed and said, "Yeah, I totally am!"

What even makes a person "whitewashed"? Is it the food he or she chooses? The music, the films, the clothes that he or she prefers? Or the language he or she speaks most often at home?

Does it make that person more American? What does that--"being American"--even mean anyways? And what does that mean for me, the daughter of an immigrant family who was born and raised in California?

"I have always viewed Miss America as the girl next door, and the girl next door is evolving as the diversity in America evolves." That was Miss New York Nina Davuluri's answer to a question she received on Sunday night at the annual Miss America pageant about Julie Chen's plastic surgery to make her look less Asian. Davuluri, whose pageant platform was "celebrating diversity through cultural competency," walked away with the crown at the end of the night--becoming the first Indian-American woman to be named Miss America, and the second Asian American in pageant history to win.

First, a disclaimer: the majority of my knowledge surrounding pageants comes from Miss Congeniality. "It's not a beauty pageant, it's a scholarship competition!" And, to be fair, Miss America is in large part a scholarship competition: in fact, it's the single largest scholarship competition in this country, according to this discussion on Sunday's Melissa Harris-Perry before the competition aired. (I highly recommend watching that video segment and the segment that followed it, as it dives into the deeper discussion of the relevancy of the Miss America pageant--a topic that is very interesting and complex, but one I won't be focusing on here in this post.)

Second: if you thought Davuluri's achievement wouldn't go without racist remarks from the internet peanut gallery, you were right. "Miss New York is an Indian.. With all do respect this is America," one person tweeted. Others called her an Arab and a terrorist, and said her win was offensive so close to the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks.

Posts that featured these negative remarks were shared thousands of times within hours of the pageant's conclusion. And while the sharing of these negative remarks was criticized itself, I think it's important that we recognize the racism that still runs through our society in this day and age, and understand that it goes beyond those who use a social network and choose to express their discriminatory thoughts in such a casual manner. Alyssa Rosenberg over at ThinkProgress put it best: "What’s interesting about the reaction to Davuluri’s crowning isn’t that teenagers say stupid things, but that people are uncomfortable with a woman of color being held up as an ideal of All-American beauty and femininity."

You can watch the full video by clicking the image, or this link. I would've embedded the video, but it autoplayed on the page, and I hate that...

On Wednesday, TV personality Julie Chen revealed she underwent plastic surgery nearly 20 years ago after being told she could never make it in journalism because of her "Asian eyes."

"I asked my news director over the holidays, 'If anchors want to take vacations, could I fill in?' And he said, 'You will never be on this anchor desk, because you're Chinese,'" Chen said about her time at a local Ohio station. "He said, 'Let's face it, Julie, how relatable are you to our community? How big of an Asian community do we have in Dayton? On top of that, because of your heritage, because of your Asian eyes, sometimes I've noticed that when you're on camera, when you're interviewing someone, you look disinterested and bored because your eyes are so heavy, they are so small.'"

Chen attempted to find another job shortly after that with the help of a new agent--but the agent she approached agreed with her news director. "He said, 'I cannot represent you unless you get plastic surgery to make your eyes look bigger.'"

The issue divided Chen's family, she said, but she went forward with the surgery. "After I had done it, the ball did roll for me," she admitted. After her surgery and after leaving Ohio, Chen landed CBS anchor gigs and an eventual job hosting Big Brother, and also ended up marrying the head of the network.

I will admit that when I first saw the headline Thursday morning, I didn't think much of it (other than to shake my fist at the racist news director and agent who advised Chen.). Yes, it was terrible, but was it that surprising this was a thing that actually happened? Of course not. The concept of this kind of surgery is not new, particularly to those in the Asian community. I remember playing with makeup when I was younger with my non-Asian friends, and wondering why I couldn't use eyeshadow the way our Seventeen and Teen People magazines suggested. I felt frustrated backstage in makeup rooms before musicals and shows because the women applying makeup would have lengthy conversations in front of me about what to do about my eyes (not to mention that alopecia had taken my eyebrows early on as well).


But I was surprised at the reactions I browsed through on Twitter and in the comments sections on various articles. There was a genuine shock that a Chinese woman would have surgery to make herself look less Chinese. Some people were angry that she gave in to the pressure and changed who she was in order to further her career, but I don't think that's necessarily fair: Chen's choice was a personal decision she made about her own body. Women (and men) of all color make decisions about their own bodies every day that are theirs to make. Perhaps if Chen's decision was a result of the growing pressure on personalities to look a certain way, then we can have a different conversation about the standards of beauty set in Hollywood and the media.

But Chen's decision was a result of racism, a statement she took for truth, and it resulted in her conscious choice to try to distance herself from a visible marker of her heritage. And it worked: she was rewarded for it. And that's unfortunate, because it doesn't celebrate the diversity that makes up America; it punishes those who look different.

"Did I give in to 'the man'?" Chen wondered aloud to her co-hosts. I think the frank answer to that is: yes, at the time you did. But she felt it was necessary to be successful in her chosen profession, and she turned out to be right about that. At the time in the mid-90s, there were very few Asian journalists on network TV. (Hell, in 2013, there are still few.) Chen may have "given in" to the pressure to change her appearance in order to gain any sort of recognition from her peers that she could be a major player in the media, but I absolutely disagree with any suggestion that she was wrong to do it. And she's speaking out about it now, which is so necessary because it's opening up a conversation that I don't think many Americans knew was being had.

When Chen started talking about how she would watch back the tapes of her interviews and focus on her eyes, I began to instantly relate: I did that with photographs often, and would notice snapshots where I would look bored or disinterested, though it had nothing to do with my mood. My smiles looked fake because my eyes weren't expressive, and I used to obsess over it. In fact, I still do obsess.

So I changed myself too, after struggling to find a photo to put on a campaign poster for a 7th grade school election--not with plastic surgery, but I forced myself to engage in active listening, even in my day-to-day casual conversations with friends or with family. Whether I was genuinely interested or not, I learned to nod with the rhythm of the other person's speech, and when to interject with words or sounds that indicated I was indeed listening and interested. I made myself make eye contact, and found the right moments to repeat back key words or phrases. (You can imagine how much this, plus the countless number of interviews I watched Barbara Walters conduct on 20/20 before bed each Friday night, helped as I developed my journalism skills later in life.)

My mother's oldest sister used to use the "Scotch tape" method to create that double eyelid illusion, and while I never did it (okay--I tried it once, and nearly blinded myself), I met more than a dozen people in an Asian American Psychology class in college who admitted they've used it before too. It was a painful solidarity to feel, but it validated the anger I knew I rightly felt when, as an 18 year old, a stranger balked at the idea I could ever be a journalist--because I "don't look like the people you see on NBC or something."

One girl who sat next to me in the psych class admitted she'd gone the Scotch tape route, but "only for big events, like prom and class photos."

"Wasn't it uncomfortable?" I asked her. She just shrugged, as if to repeat that old adage: beauty is pain.