Brian Boru

Hi, Just a reassurance note to all those who've had a HT and then worried over hair loss. After my second transplant at Farjo Clinic in Manchester, (in Spetember) by Christmas I had quite a bit of hair loss. There was far more in the hair plug than I would have hoped for. I made a very worried phone call to Dr F, and was reassured that; this sometimes happens, hair growth - and loss - can be cyclical, that more new hair would be on it way. Sure enough, 10 weeks later Dr F was right on the money. The hair has grown in much thicker and I can feel new spikeys on the way. It's still such a great feeling. I know have so much hair that I can choose styles. And the only problem I have is finding a decent hairdresser. Oh, to think I once dreamed of such a dilemma. The point of this note? Have faith and hang on in there. It seems hair units grow when they feel like it and often there's no rhyme nor reason to the process. And don't worry. It just makes the situation worse. The new hair will appear. And like nature, it seems to prefer the advent of spring to make it's appearance felt.

Hi Raphael, Hope you enjoy the book. And thanks to Mick for mailing you a copy. He's Manchester's very own Santa - but without the belly, beatific smile and big red suit. Lots of luck, Brian

Hi, No plans for another book. The first one gives most of the info I want to get across. But I will continue to post the updates from the second HT. Interestingly, hair growth seems to be taking places after just two months. I can feel the little spikys on my scalp. Incredible. Thanks for your comments on the book. They really made my day.

I'M greedy, I guess. Eighteen months ago I had a transplant at the Farjo Clinic in Manchester and the result was fantastic. What was once a head that resembled a bare car park sprinkled with a few dying leaves was transformed. Not into a thick, lush jungle of hair, I have to say but an area with a lovely growing, garden. And each morning since I've looked at my new hair with pride and appreciation. However, the garden had a little patch - at the crown - that remained thin. Even the gifted Dr F couldn't spread the 3250 FUs he'd relocated onto scalp previously to the point complete forestation was achieved. And so I spoke to Mick, the genial clinic manager and who had guided me through the process last time. 'We can sort it out,' he said, reassuringly. And so I travelled to Manchester for a second procedure, and once again the hair garden team were slick, efficient and hugely welcoming. The drinks, the Granola bars, chicken sandwich and comforting smiles all arrived right on cue and I took great delight in learning that 2,100 lovely little FUs had been planted in the crown and 'in a V shape', towards the front. Come Christmas the garden will be patchless. Was the process any different this time? Not at all. Again, the back of my head was a little tender for a few days but the spray antiseptic provided acts like balm. It's wonderful. I was back at work three days after the procedure and this time around however not a single person had a clue what had been going on - and in - my head. And why would they? My head wasn't shaved, and there was no sigh at all of any scalp irritation. And after about ten days the stitches dissolved, like tiny particles of snow exposed to sunlight. But there is one feature of this transplant that doesn't match up with the previous. Not all of the implanted hairs have fallen out, as is expected, only to regrow four months later. Every morning when I wake up I touch my scalp and feel the little spiky hairs - and it's a delight. Am I completely glad to have undergone a second procedure? Some may feel it's gilding the lily, perhaps all a little too self-indulgent - or perhaps even tempting fate. Who knows? All I know is that since the original hair transplant there hasn't been a day goes past when I haven't looked in the mirror and watched my face register a double smile of appreciation and delight. I'm back to the wonderful days of disturbed, sometimes mad, morning hair, when the top of my head looks messier than a teenager's bedroom. Now I grin as I decide how I'm going to part my hair each day, (side or middle) or just leave it floppy and let nature and the wind determine the rest. However I reckoned that if you can go for something close to hair perfection, then why not. I still won't have the David Cassidy hair I had when I was eighteen, but I have to say I'm headed, no pun intended, entirely in that direction. I'll let you know how it all thickens out at the end of the year.

Having written a book about the hair transplant process diaryofahairtransplant.com I've spent the past two months telling newspapers, radio and TV stations that transplants do work. But I make sure I qualify this; transplants, as Last Chance highlights, they only work IF you get the right surgeon. I was really lucky to find Farjo in the UK. Make sure you find someone as good.

Hi Irish, Wanted to say glad all is going well with you - and I'm sure you'll get a great result, given that you were at the hands of Dr Farjo. Thanks for your kind words about the book, Diary Of A Hair Transplant. Would you mind if I used them on the website? If so could you give me your name? Regards Brian

Hi Bill, Thanks for your comments and your fantastic support re; Diary Of A Hair Transplant. I hope that it does give others a personal insight; as you know embarking upon surgery is scary. Hopefully those who read it will have all the questions answered - and choose the right surgeon. And I hope they find a few laughs amongst the pages. Regards, Brian

Hi Bill, Wondering if you've had the chance to read the book yet? I'm keen to hear your thoughts, given your own experience. Brian

Hi, Sorry you're right.I didn't see the question. Apologies for that. The book can be bought at www.diaryofahairtransplant.com. I'd love to get your thoughts once you've read it. Brian

Hi Bill, Thanks for the comments and the support throughout. Much appreciated. Hope you enjoy the book and it makes you smile. Brian

OKAY, you'd think because I write all day long as a journalist I'd know when to stop. But I don't. And now I've written 80,000 words. And you're too blame. You see after I had my hair transplant, I thought I would write a blog for this website. And I did. And not only did I enjoy writing about my initial hair experience over a 1,000 words, it seemed that those who read this website did too. So it got me to thinking; 'What if there were a book on the market that chronicled the whole hairloss process? 'What if there were a book that explained what it feels like to be told you're going to be bald ??“ when you're eight years old ??“ and what it feels like to watch your David Cassidy hair go down a sink at the age of eighteen? 'What if there were a book that researched the history of hair loss, looked at the 'treatments' developed over the years, the lotions and potions, the quackery, the hair weaves and the early transplants?' Well, I'd read it. I know that for a fact because it's sort of reference that I craved when looking about for a hair solution, reading the ads, scanning the websites, pouring through the testimonials. But I didn't want to write a book that's simply a guide. Hopefully, it's a empathetic story, for every guy who's cringed when he sees himself from above in a garage forecourt camera and realises the nightmare is upon him. It's for every man who's had to battle the dark forces who decree that real men don't need hairlines and that cosmetic surgery was too big a step into ladyland. It's for every bloke who's thought about having hair work done, but had to cope with the spectre of Elton - the hideous ghost of transplant past. It's for every guy who has ever looged on to Hair Transplant Network - because I was one of those guys. And more recently I drew upon this website for fantastic research material for the book. Thanks to all;(Bill, Spex, Balody, Dewayne etc for their help.) It's a journey from trauma through to state-of -the -art transplant - and all the gizmos and gunk in-between. And through a struggle to understand why, since the beginning of time, bald has been bad. You can read how I coped with baldness ??“ and the results that came with a state-of-the-art transplant. And how I coped with being asked the same questions constantly; 'Where does the hair come from? Is it your leg?' 'Will it grow?' 'Can it still fall out?' 'How much does it cost?' 'Don't you think it's really vain to have a hair transplant?' 'Aren't you afraid you'll end up like Elton? Will it really work? ' You can find out all the answers in . . . Diary of a Hair Tranplant ??“ A Journalist's Search For David Cassidy Hair , by Brian Beacom. *Those who'd like to buy a copy go to www. diaryofahairtransplant.com

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I thought I would update everyone; I've compared my new pics with the originals - and have had something of a shock. Have a look. (It's just four months exactly since I had my HT.) Also worth noting; my stiches were examined by a pal who happens to be a top Scottish consultant - and reckons it's some of the best work he's ever seen. Let me know what you think. . . . hair_ms_6.jpg_3

IT WAS time. The phrase 'hair-parting' had suddenly taken on a whole new meaning for me. To be honest, the hairline had been thinner than Victoria Beckham's thong for some time. But from the front of my head there was always enough fuzz to take away the bare look, to allow me to live in denial. Not now. Not since the day I stood in the garage to pay for petrol and received an incredible fright. No, not at the price of petrol. A flashing glance at the CCTV camera revealed the true picture. The top of my head was close to hairless. The thick dark David Cassidy-hair was, like the Seventies, long gone. I had to take action. But what sort? A close pal, an actor, had had a weave. Like Elton. And it looked great. But what did it feel like? He let me touch his scalp. I could feel the plastic ridge into which the hairs are inserted. Oh dear. And it costs ??60 a month for ??maintenance'. I didn't like the idea of being maintained. So I looked for a solution. Literally. There are lots on the market. Rogaine, Propecia, Finasteride. Mmm. Perhaps. Another pal revealed he's been using Finasteride. It's working. He doesn't have hair in abundance. But it's thicker and looks fine. Yet, I needed a more immediate, more dramatic result. I searched the net. A company in Mexico were offering to re-regrow your own hair using stem cells. At a cost of $30,000. But there's another price to pay. Side effects. Latin American scientific reports claim the stem celled hair will grow in one colour only ??“ white ??“ and in any direction it chooses. I don't want to look like Don King. Or Rhydian. But what about a transplant? I'm unsure. Now, I know the days when Elton and Russ Abbott had transplants - which left their head looking like the bog potato fields of 19th century Ireland - are gone. Transplant technique has come of age. But the website comments all say the same thing; it can all go wrong. You have to get the right surgeon. So how do you find the right man for the job? I spoke to one the one of the UK's top trichologists for independent advice. He recommended his 'own transplant surgeon', which didn't sound that independent to me. And so I made a few more calls to cosmetic clinics around the country. And I spoke to lots of sales people who all promised they could make me hairier than a Greek grandmother's top lip ??“ without having seen sight of my head. But I looked around and a transplant seemed the best option. Who to choose? I read up on the hospitals in Buenos Aires which were offering cheap transplant deals. Sounded dodgy. Then I spoke to the Harley Street company offering a new transplant technique whereby a device pulls follicles from the back of the head and plants them in the front. It sounded fine. And so I went down to London to the main office where I was ushered into a small white-walled office by a female of indeterminate accent and vague job description. She opened a laptop and showed me CGI images of a bald hair. Then she showed the same head with hair. Was she a doctor? No, a ??company manager'. I assumed she was essentially a saleswoman. The lady then produced a video programme that counts hairs on heads and estimates how many I would need. And she told me the cost. It was expensive. But I could go to Greece she said and get it done 'much cheaper'. Now I didn't get a hard sell - more a contrived indifference. I felt she was saying to me ??Well, we know you'll be back because you have no choice'. "What's the name of the doctor who would perform the tranplant?" I asked. "It depends," she says. "We use a pool of doctors." "Can't you be specific?" "Not really." Aside from creating an image in my head of a group of surgeons splashing around wearing water wings, I decide her answer doesn't work for me. I need the name of a surgeon so's I can check his credentials. What to do? Well, suddenly it hit me. "You should go and see Dr Farjo," said TV Dragon Duncan Bannatyne. No, he didn't say it to me directly. He said it to a Dragon's Den hopeful who happened to be a bit thin on top. And so I had to find out who this Dr Farjo was who came with such a high profile champion. Well, it turned out that the Scots businessman had had a hair transplant at the Farjo Clinic in Manchester. So I called the clinic and spoke to the manager, Mick. He was pleasant and seemed genuine. How can you tell? After 30 years of asking questions for a living you just know. And there's that feeling you get when you like someone straight off. So I decided to go down and look at the Farjo set up, a very swish-looking clinic right in the heart of Manchester's Picadilly. I discovered Mick to be as likable in the flesh. But just as importantly, he spoke for as long as it took to explain the process. Then he introduced me to Dr Bessam Farjo. Dr Farjo asked me what I'd be hoping for, obviously checking out whether I expected to end up with Orlando Bloom locks. And I then got to ask all the relevant questions; how long does the procedure take? Do you have instant hair? Will there be much scarring when the folicles are implanted? How thick will it be? Can it fall out? Will I become more attractive to the opposite sex and have 28 year-olds chasing me round the disco? All that sort of stuff. And he gave straight answers to the serious questions and laughed at the dafter one. I liked him. More importantly, I trusted him. He gave me all the time I need to explore all the issues. And he offered to put me in touch with others who lived locally and had had the treatment. I feel confident in his ability but, just as importantly, I feel he has a personal interest in me. "You won't get a thick head of hair," he said, "but you have good growth area at the back and we can transplant it to the top and get a decent result." I'm convinced. But Mick insisted I go away and think about it. And I did. Three months later I found myself standing outside the Farjo Clinic in the April sunshine feeling happily anxious, worriedly excited. An oxymoronic state? You bet. Well, it's not ever day you are about to tick one of the largest personal boxes you've ever ticked in your life. Inside the clinic was a hive of industry, even at 7.30am - but an oasis of calm. And Dr Farjo was relaxed and cheerful for a man who was about to work a ten hour shift. (or so I thought) We talked headlines. Not,as a journalist, the sort I'm, used to talking about. No, he talked about what my head would look like by the end of the day. And it was all so laid back. Then came the sedation pill and ten minutes later I was laid back in a huge comfy leather chair. My head was numbed - it was more irritating than painful - and an elastic band strapped around my dome which was slightly uncomfortable, like I was wearing Ethel Merman's junior bathing cap. During this time, my thoughts were more on the music Terry Wogan was playing than the procedure - a measure of my trust or the Valium, I'm not sure which. But Dr Farjo kept me abreast of developments on the back of my head. The donor strip had been removed, he explained, the follicles prepared, cut up and separated. The scalp was then made ready for the follicles to be planted, little incisions made, but again I felt nothing more than discomfort. Then the follicles were inserted, one at a time, which was a slow, labour-intensive process. After a break for lunch, a lovely pre-ordered chicken sandwich, it was back to the plantation fields and serious work for Dr Farjo and his wife, ADD. Not for me. The afternoon was the chance to watch the movie, The Last King of Scotland. During all of this however, the attention and reassurance was constant; little comments alleviated any slight concerns I had. But to be honest, I enjoyed this light atmosphere. It was far more relaxing than a day at the office. And the process continued right through the afternoon. After the movie I slept for a while, then woke up and the team were still planting hair. Did I feel confined? Uncomfortable? Not a bit. And all the time I could smile knowing this was all a move in the right direction. Then Dr Farjo announced he'd come to the end of the road. Or my head, actually. "Do you want to see how it looks?' he said. And I didn't, actually. I have to admit that at this point I was terrified. I really was frozen with fear, not about the possible scars, or the sight of blood, more along the lines of what if there's nothing there? Or what if the new hairline looks weird, that it runs straight across my head like Frankenstein's or Curly out of The Three Stooges? The negative thoughts raged through my altered head like a torrent. This wasn't like buying a suit after all. You can take a hair transplant back. This is permanent. This is the result of years of build up to a process that will alter how I look. And I'm afraid. But before I could answer, a mirror was produced. And with it an amazing moment. I had a hairline. A perfectly natural-looking hairline. It didn't run straight across my scalp at all. Nor was it pointy like Dracula's or Jude Law's. However, there's a downside. It won't be there too much longer, I'm told. The implanted hair falls out after a few days and it's four or five months before the follicles produce new hair. For a second, I feel down. It's a bit like being given a new racing bike for Christmas with 12 speed Shimano gears and she tells you you can ride it for three days. But then it goes back to the shop for four months. Yet, that's fine. I can live with that. Because I've had a glimpse of the future - and it has hair ??“ and it looks fantastic. Hopefully, I thanked Dr Farjo enough as I left the clinic and headed for Chinatown with the Blonde for a celebration dinner. I say hopefully, because I felt so elated all I could think about was this fantastic new hair line that will one day be mine for keeps. The next day, the sense of euphoria continued and I even wrote a poem. All I Want For Christmas Is A Comb.