I found a bald patch on my head the other day. Much like Donald Trumpwho this week complained about Time magazine’s cover image of him for ‘exaggerating’ his baldness, my hair has been ‘disappeared’. Though unlike in the case of the President of the United States, a change of camera angle won’t return it to its rightful place.

The patch is slap bang on the crown of my head, in exactly the kind of place an old man like Trump might find himself going bald. But I am not an old man, I am a 45-year-old woman who’s been dealing with bald patches like this since I was 18.

Back then, my sister found the small, smooth circle of skin while straightening my hair. ‘You’ve got a bald patch!’ she shrieked. Camera phones not being a thing in 1998, it was with the help of many mirrors that I saw my first glimpse of the condition that would take up so much of my head space (literally, in some cases) for the next 20 years.

Within weeks the small, five-pence-sized patch grew to the dimensions of a ten pound note. It was soon joined by another large patch, and another, until I looked like the man with the combover from the Hamlet cigar advert. Or was it football legend Bobby Charlton?

The insults from teenage boys were always a variation on this theme and I lost track of the times I tried to laugh them off, for fear of being seen as even more of a weirdo.

After all, the Nineties were a time when women had to look perfect without showing that they cared about looking perfect, which was seen as frivolous, despite the misogynistic comments if you dared leave the house with so much as a hair out of place. (See also: Victoria Beckhamspeaking on her new Netflix docuseries about the time she was weighed live on TV, just six months after giving birth to her first child.)

My mother took me to a (female) GP who simply shrugged and looked at me in a manner that suggested she had real, ill people to deal with. ‘It’s alopecia areata,’ she snapped, and sent me on my way with a prescription for a steroid cream. We would rub it in, the hair would grow back, often completely white. But the bald patches would simply move around my scalp, like an infuriating game of Whack-a-Mole.

I learnt what little there was to know about alopecia areata: that it is an autoimmune condition which causes the immune system to attack the hair follicle, creating sudden patchy baldness, and that it affects about one in 1,000 people. It can be associated with thyroid problems, but tests showed I didn’t have any. In about 20 per cent of cases, it is inherited, and yet both of my parents still have luscious, full heads of hair.

I tried extensions, special shampoos, seeing a homeopath. A nutritionist told me to stop eating spinach (a dubious ‘allergy’ test told her I was intolerant to it) and drinking diet coke (the artificial sweeteners were bad for me, apparently), and while I wanted to believe this would make a difference, it didn’t.

I wore head scarves and hats, discovered that the patches were less noticeable with blonde hair than dark, and learnt how to style my hair in a way that could just about cover up the patches as long as nobody tried to pat me on the head. Which they often did, when they noticed so much as a glimpse of my baldness.

I felt bad about my alopecia, and then I felt bad for feeling bad about my alopecia. It wasn’t as if my hair was falling out because of something terrible, such as chemotherapy.

It’s only as I’ve got older – and a tiny bit wiser – that I’ve come to see how this habit of berating myself was all part of the process that led to alopecia in the first place. Because despite endless know-it-alls coming up to me in the street to tell me that my alopecia is probably caused by a hormone imbalance, or ultra-processed food, I now know that for me the real cause is intense stress.

It will, of course, be different for everyone. But I’ve come to see alopecia as my body’s way of telling me to look after myself, a loud and impossible-to-ignore cue to sit down and indulge in some self care.

When fellow sufferers ask what helps, I suggest asking themselves if there’s something going on in their life that is causing them excess stress, and then prioritising themselves over it, even if it is just by taking a long bath or going for a walk.

Back when I was 18, I just thought the alopecia was yet more proof of my faulty-wiring. After all, I had been in the grips of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder since the age of about 11, my brain bombarding me with violent and distressing intrusive thoughts which told me my family would die if I didn’t chant phrases in my head to keep them alive.

About three months before my sister found the patch, I had been doing my A-Levels, and the OCD had ramped up to such an unbearable level that I had been signed off school, put on antidepressants, and was unable to leave the house. Looking back, it makes sense that my hair would have started falling out at this point, because I was in an almost constant state of anxiety, convinced the worst was about to happen.

But it’s only really in the last decade that I have been able to see the visceral link between alopecia and my mental health. If I am going through a prolonged period of stress, I can guarantee I will eventually wake up with a bald patch in the centre of my head. I’ve learnt that I can almost set my watch by it: three months after a tricky time (our hair grows in 90-day cycles), a patch will appear as a sort of gentle reminder to breathe.

And so it was that last week, after a difficult few months that have involved a lot of grief, I found the latest iteration of alopecia areata in the centre of my scalp.

My initial response was, as ever, panic. What if it gets bigger, and spreads? But I’ve learnt that you can’t treat stress with more stress. Having a freak out, in the style of Donald Trump, is only going to make things worse. This bald patch is here to remind me that it’s time to listen to my body, rather than the unhelpful thoughts in my head.

No wonder Giorgia’s gasping for a ciggie

Who could blame the Italian prime minister Giorgia Meloni for taking up smoking again, 13 years after she last quit? The 48-year-old was the only woman present at this week’s Gaza summit in Egypt, stuck at the end of the line-up on stage, and was repeatedly patronised by Donald Trump as he stood on stage describing her as ‘beautiful’. When other leaders told her off for her love of a cigarette, Meloni said she smoked because ‘I don’t want to kill somebody.’ I can’t imagine who she’s talking about.

Trainers firms should put women in the running

A study has found that many sports brands ‘shrink it and pink it’ when it comes to creating running shoes for women. Canadian researchers discovered that most trainers are based on a male foot anatomy, with only minimal modifications made to create versions for females. As a marathoner, I’m not surprised. Nothing in running is designed for women, from hydration vests to the actual sport itself. Indeed, every time a man speeds past me looking pleased with himself, I want to shout: ‘You try doing a marathon with two massive balloons attached to your chest.’

Ninety is the new 60 for Mary

I was lucky enough to interview Dame Mary Berry this week, on stage at the Henley Literary Festival. The 90-year-old wowed the sell-out crowd for an hour, strolling on and off stage to a standing ovation, before going to celebrate with some friends and a jeroboam of champagne. My 12-year-old gave her the ultimate compliment: ‘She doesn’t look a day over 60, Mum.’ It must be all the fizz and lemon drizzle cake.

Why muscly men DO make great hubbies

My colleague Amanda Platell says most women don’t like their men beefy, pointing to Ben Shepherd’s midlife body transformation as an example. I disagree! As the wife of an incredibly buff 45-year-old, on whose biceps I very much enjoy walking around, I can vouch for the fact that muscly men make great husbands.

Gen Z are right – you can quote me on that

God bless Generation Z, 59 per cent of whom need a motivational meme to get them through life’s challenges – call it ‘Thought for the Day’, but for the social media generation. I’m with the young people on this one. My favourite inspirational quote comes from the former Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, who once gave the best bit of advice this depressive has ever heard: ‘Attack the day, don’t let it attack you.’ If someone could just turn it into an Instagram quote and tag me in it, I’d be ever so grateful.