My husband, Cornel, firmly believed that this procedure would rejuvenate his dwindling sense of masculinity. He was convinced it would enhance his virility, attractiveness, and youthful appearance.

However, the reality unfolding before my eyes just a day after Cornel’s grueling eight-hour hair transplant operation resembles less of a strong Samson and more of a comical Homer Simpson.

In a scene that is both heart-wrenching and amusing, Cornel attempts to sleep upright on the sofa, an inflatable neck pillow supporting him. His scalp is dotted with tiny red marks, and his swollen head, a vivid shade of red, resembles an oversized tomato.

The band doctors have secured around his forehead does little to improve the situation – he appears like a loaf of bread, slowly rising from its pan.

Hair transplants are becoming as routine for men as Botox is for women. High-profile figures like Jude Law, Elon Musk, Gordon Ramsay, and Wayne Rooney are rumored to have indulged in this procedure to restore their hairlines.

According to Harley Street Transplant Clinics, around 30,000 men in the UK undergo this process annually. In 2023 alone, approximately 1.8 million ‘medical tourists’ flocked to Turkey, a popular destination for affordable hair transplants. Social media is brimming with men proudly flaunting their revitalized hair.

While Cornel wouldn’t dream of having anything like Botox, he’s spent the past decade wanting to have a hair transplant – the stigma of impending baldness was far worse to him than any potential shame involved in a transplant – despite me repeatedly telling him his thinning hair didn’t affect how I felt about him.

So deeply did he want a full head of hair, though, that I promised to support him.

But when I saw him propped up on the sofa, seemingly mutilated by the procedure, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was worth it.

Worse, I actually briefly wondered if I’d ever fancy him again.

When we first met in 2005, Cornel was 25 and I was 28.

Yes, he had a slightly receding hairline, but I’ve always found that distinguished on a man. Think Sting. There’s a certain air of intelligence, gravitas, to a man with a high forehead and a slightly less hair. In fact, studies show receding hair is linked to high testosterone, which is probably why women like me are subliminally attracted to it.

But, as the years passed, Cornel’s hairline hasn’t so much receded as full-on retreated, now beginning somewhere in the centre of his head.

Worse still, a few years ago, he began to develop a bald patch at the back, and his hairline looked perilously like one day meeting in the middle. This, despite only being in his early 40s.

He began performing a strange fluffing, creating a ‘comb-over’ situation that made matters worse, not better. Not quite Donald Trump, but you get my drift.

Generally, though, he kept his feelings under control, only occasionally moaning about his hair. That was until around nine months ago when our children, Alex, 16, and Adriana, 12, took a picture of us together slightly from above. He audibly gasped at the image showing how thin his hair was. Indeed, at 44 years old his hairline was now a good two inches back from where it had been when I’d first met him.

A hair transplant, he decided, was the only answer – and I supported him.

But when I heard it would cost £3,000, my face did visibly drop.

His retort was quick and sharp: ‘And how much have you spent over the years on Botox?’

He had a point.

In my eight years of using Botox, I’ve spent thousands – £250 every three months on my forehead and crow’s feet.

And every month, what with haircuts, manicures, facials and more, I probably spend £250 just on my beauty regime.

Even the thought of the needles and excavation of his scalp that would be involved didn’t put him off – the sheer desire for new hair won over.

Cornel spent months researching and opted to have the transplant done at The Hair Loss Clinic, after reading favourable reports from past customers.

I was relieved he was staying in the UK, as he’d considered going to Turkey where it would’ve cost half the price. The horror stories of Turkish procedures gone wrong, including fatalities, thankfully put him off.

Yet for all my relief, when I dropped him off at the clinic in Harrow, north London, in March this year, I felt terrible for him. Hadn’t I told him often enough that, receding hairline or not, I still desired and loved him?

Why was he putting himself through this? Later that day, however, when he sent me picture updates of the procedure by text message, I had a dramatic change of heart. The procedure involved him shaving his head completely – necessary for precision implanting of the new hair follicles, apparently.

I had never seen him completely bald before, and my goodness it was a shock. I exclaimed out loud at the sight.

If this was the future of my husband’s appearance without this transplant – he looked like an egg – I was suddenly all for it. There was absolutely no way I could be married to a baldie.

A local anaesthetic was first administered and hair follicles were taken from the back of Cornel’s head near the nape of the neck where men usually have the most hair. The surgeon painstakingly removed some 3,000 follicles with ultra-sharp blades or micro-punches. Next, they were implanted by hand to a depth and breadth that is personalised to the individual.

A picture of the job half done looked horrifyingly painful. Cornel had literally thousands of tiny red dots all over his head.

After the procedure he stayed in a nearby hotel to recover, and I drove there to take him back to our home in Hampshire.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for what walked towards me: my husband, with a black tight band wrapped Ninja-style around his head. And tucked into that was what looked like a nappy for the head; a wad of blood-stained bandage. As I drove, I turned at interludes to stare from the driver’s seat, while he winced every time I drove over a pothole. ‘Drive slower,’ he grimaced. That afternoon I had to wash his head with a cup of warm water to dampen the wadding so we could peel it off. Encrusted black blood came with it.

‘Oh Lord…’ I muttered.

‘Is it bad?’ he winced. The paracetamol he’d been told to take every four hours clearly wasn’t masking the pain. ‘Er, no, no it’s fine,’ I lied.

Then came his bizarre bedtime set-up. When I protested he couldn’t possibly sleep upright all night he told me he was banned from lying down for five nights as the friction of lying on a pillow could affect the new hair implants, potentially dislodging them. The neck pillow was a must.

The list of other don’ts was as long as someone recovering from heart surgery. He wasn’t to drive immediately after; apply anything to his head; bend over, lean forwards or turn his head upside down (as you do!) for two days; or sleep on the transplant area. Nor were we permitted to have sex for seven days after the surgery, because of the potential threat posed by ‘friction’ or me touching his head in the throes of passion.

The next morning, his head was even larger, thanks to the post-operative swelling – less bread loaf, more soufflé. And it continued to grow until he looked like a giant pumpkin. ‘It hurts,’ he moaned weakly. The next few days were challenging for our marriage. Nursing one’s husband through a hair transplant is not for the faint hearted. I waited on him hand and foot, bringing him water (no coffee – caffeine was banned, as it affects swelling and the overall healing process) and meals (nothing spicy – spice dries out the scalp apparently, threatening the new hair).

On day three we had to wash his hair, but as using a shower hose was forbidden for a fortnight – the water pressure was too strong – I had to resort to a method last used when our children were newborns: cupping my hand with warm water, and drizzling it on his head. ‘It’s dripping down my neck!’ he groaned.

Every 30 minutes during the day, and at night if he woke, he had to spray his head with sterile mineral water to keep the scalp moist – this aided the chances of the hair setting, apparently. A bit like a newly laid lawn.

When we ventured out for a Mother’s Day meal a week or so after the transplant (his first proper outing) he got the spray out in the restaurant and starting spritzing, covering the family next to us in mineral water.

‘Sorry,’ he smiled. ‘Hair transplant.’ I bit my tongue. The fact he was completely bald with a swollen head, and fading red dots all over his scalp, was a bit of a give-away.

It was interesting to see how little shame he had about it. Wherever he went, he talked about it. It was like a compulsion. In the post office queue.

At the garden centre checkout. Any time he could talk about it, he did.

It was so different to how I behave after Botox. No way would I tell strangers that I’d just had it done. But Cornel had no embarrassment whatsoever. And most men he spoke to were extremely interested – despite the fact that for a good month he looked like he’d been shorn.

Then tiny hairs began to grow – starting in the centre, and then working their way towards his forehead.

‘My hairline has come back!’ he cried, spritzing himself and me with his mineral water.

‘Yippee,’ I groaned, exhausted by it all. When we booked our August summer holiday, which would be some five months after his operation, I saw him mentally counting weeks in his head.

‘I can’t go sea swimming for four weeks,’ he said, ‘and can’t sunbathe for months.’

Resisting my urge to snap, ‘It’s a hair transplant, not life saving surgery!’, I replied: ‘It’ll all be fine by then.’

And things did slowly improve.

At first on sunny days he’d walk around with an umbrella shielding himself from the sun’s rays, rather like a Victorian lady. He actually worried that the smallest amount of UV light from the English spring sunshine could put everything at risk.

Eventually he ditched the brolly. Then, a few weeks later, he could shower normally.

After two months, alcohol was permitted – it had been banned as it causes dehydration, potentially affecting the skin and the growth of new tufts – but he kept sleeping on his neck pillow (and still does!) ‘I’m used to it,’ he explained.

His hairline kept marching forwards, assisted by five sessions of platelet rich plasma therapy, where your own blood (in his case, from the crease of his elbow) is injected back into the scalp, promoting hair growth – an extra recommended procedure that costs £300 per session.

Seven months on and the results are astonishing. While he’ll never have a John Travolta quiff, his hairline is back to where it was in his teenage years. His confidence is booming, too. It should last around 10 years, depending on his lifestyle.

But his urge to tell people hasn’t faded. If I had a pound for every time I’ve heard him tell someone he’s just met, ‘Do you know, I’ve recently had a hair transplant?’, I’d have enough cash to cover my Botox bill.

hairlosstreatmentclinics.co.uk

What does Cornel think? 

Cornel says: ‘I’ve always had a high forehead and never thought anything of it until I reached my 30s. Then my hairline started receding even more. Julie told me it was distinguished, but my confidence was at rock bottom.

‘I felt sure she found me less attractive. I stopped cutting my hair on top and tried to flick it down but every time the wind blew it revealed my receding hairline. My social media feeds were filled with tales of successful hair transplants, and I soon became convinced it was the answer.

‘Yes, the process was painful and arduous. And for weeks the hair just didn’t seem any different, which really worried me. Our daughter even said to me that she thought it hadn’t worked, so slowly did the new hair grow in.

‘But now it’s clear it has worked – and I feel I look good in pictures and am way more confident. I’m a professional pianist so regularly have to have photos taken for work and promotional material and hated how my hair looked.

‘It’s not just me – friends say I look younger too.

‘I’d recommend a transplant to any man who’s worried about their hair.

‘Even after the neck pillow, the misting and all the needles, I’d definitely do it again.’