For me, losing my hair wasn't the hard bit – learning to live with it as a teenager was. I don't remember losing my hair when I was five. My mum thinks it could have been linked to her separating from my dad or a bad bout of chickenpox, but I'm not sure.

She found the first bald patch, the size of a two pence piece, four months before my sixth birthday, and eventually I only had wispy strands left that I wouldn't let her shave. I don't remember getting upset, though. I was just a normal little girl, with no hair.

We tried lots of treatments for this alopecia – steroids and medication called Minoxidil. I can remember wearing funny caps with creams underneath when friends were round. I never minded. But when I was nine, a doctor bluntly told me my hair would never grow back.

As a younger teenager I was happy and popular. Friends chattered to me about hair and makeup and never treated me differently. I was fine without hair. Then, when I was 14, two girls picked on my cousin and I stuck up for her. They called me "too gobby for a girl with no hair", and I was followed, threatened and bullied. Things died down but months later, in June, I was badly beaten. We were hanging out and someone shouted, "Jade, run!" One of the girls was running at me with a huge crowd. The last thing I remember is her smashing my head against the ground. I ended up in A&E and afterwards my head was covered in lumps, bumps and grazes and I had a big black eye.

But it was the after-effects that hurt the most. When I took off my makeup, my eyelashes came off on the baby wipe. It was like experiencing alopecia for the first time. Every time I wiped, more eyelashes came out – every last beautiful one. They were my pride and joy. My friends had joked I spent longer on my mascara than they did styling their hair.

After that I wouldn't leave the house. I wouldn't sleep alone and I couldn't face school. When I tried to return, a boy innocently said I looked different and I couldn't go back for weeks. Before, I coped with people staring but without my confidence, I couldn't take it. I started drinking and coming home late. Then, one awful night, I argued with mum, ran upstairs and accidentally dropped a glass. That's when I did it – slashed my arms and legs, still crying.

The next day, I felt so ashamed. I had to tell my mum the truth, although I knew it would hurt her. She rang the doctor and organised counselling for me. That was a turning point. I worked hard to deal with my feelings and I also met my boyfriend Ryan, who I've been with for two years.

Before, "wig" was a dirty word in our house – I thought it was like hiding – but when I was 15, I decided I wanted hair for my prom. I had read about a treatment that sounded great, but cost £1,500. My mum's colleagues held fundraisers for me and I had the treatment on my 16th birthday. The hair was tied to fine lace and fixed with tape. Ryan hadn't wanted me to have a wig, but he was so pleased to see me happy.

Later I started having problems with the hair. It was unnaturally thick, the tape kept peeling off and it attracted dirt. I had to keep getting new hair tied into it, and they used any colour. The final straw was when it dropped off in the bath, in a knot of dreadlocks.

I was finally ready to try wigs.

I found a realistic one with a silicone back in a shop near my home in Heywood, Greater Manchester. It was expensive but the shop's owner said I could have it for free if I modelled it for her website.

The wig is perfect. I can take it on and off, and get it glued on if I want. I'm not so bothered about having alopecia now. Actually, I think God helped me out because if I had to do my hair every day, it would drive me mad!

I'd always wanted to be a hairdresser but I thought dealing with other people's hair would be too painful. Now that I have my wig, I know I can do it. I've met other people with alopecia and they often lack confidence. They shouldn't – they can do anything they want.

As told to Victoria Holman

For more information: alopeciaonline.org.uk

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