I went bald when I was four. As far as ages to get an incurable illness go, four isn't bad. I have photos of silky blonde locks, but don't remember what I lost. I think that's a good thing.
It's pretty much the usual story - bald patch, size of a coin, doctors, comb-overs, blood tests (I still have the toy stuffed cat the red cross people gave be 'cause I wouldn't stop crying for those.) We tried a bunch of stuff - herbs, massage oils, etc. I have to thank my mum, a GP, that she refused the treatment we were recommended - something so noxious I couldn't let it touch my skin as I washed it off. Why on earth would I put that on my already traumatised scalp?
By the time I hit primary school, I had alopecia totalis. I had amassed a fine collection of hats and banadanas and rarely showed my head to anyone, but I wasn't shy about it. I've never really been a quiet kid - my parents don't remember how old I was when I learnt to speak because they can't remember me not speaking. I had some really good, supportive friends, even at that young age. I remeber when one cut her hair with scissors to "be like me". It was the day before school photos.
There was bullying, of course. Kids are kinda cruel. I remember one girl calling out loudly "Look at Georgia's bald head!". I was already fairly though, yelled "Look at your fat mouth" right back. tough, but not really tolerent. The many times people were unsure if I was a guy or a girl were far less amusing and a great deal more scarring.
My hair grew back when I was 8, for a short time. I wish it hadn't. When it fell out again a few months later I was devastated. I was old enough to understand what was happening now, and it scared the hell out of me. Fortunately, that was about when we found the Alopecia Support Group, based in Sydney.
We when up for a few meetings and events. It was so great to see their were other people goind through this as well. (If anyone gets the opportunity to go to a group like that, I greatly recommend it. It doesn't fix the proplem, but it truly helps.)
I got a suction-based wig right when I started high school. I still agree with that decision, but wonder what would have been different if I'd gone au naturale, as it were. My wig let me feel comfortable in this new environment - at first. Year 7 was hellish with bullying and some of my own issues. There were rumors about my hair problems, from people who new me in primary school and the general idiocy the gossip mill churns out. I would love to say I met the whispers head on, told them I had alopecia and was proud of who I was. But I didn't. I lied, said I didn't know what they were talking about and hid behind my wig. It wasn't until late year 9, and a job in a bakery, that I stepped about from under my wig.
Working in a bakery, and my difficiency and reluctance to putting my hair up, ment I started wearing a scarf. It was much cooler and comfortable, and while I did get many looks, no one seemed to mind. The job didn't last, but the scarf did.

I'm nearly 17 now, in my final year of high school. I've come to terms, mostly, with my alopecia. I started martial arts, wearing my scarf as my wig was too hot and some regrowth lessened the staying power. I'm actually the current Australaisan traditional weapons champion in my age group, and barring the world turning back on its axis I'm attending the World Cup later this year. I've started trying to spread awareness of Alopecia in my area, working some connections with Girl Guides and the local hairdresses and TAFE college. I'm not quite at the point where I'm comfortable going out sans scarf, but I'm working on it. My major work for Drama this year is a piece exploring my alopecia and the implications of the disease on peoples lives.

I've been through ups and downs. Hell, I still have days where I want to throw my wig and scream to be given back what was taken. But, as cliched as it is, this has made me strong. I wouldn't be where I am, or where I'm going without the Alopecia. Don't get me wrong, I'm certainly not glad I have it. But I can accept that it's a part of me, like having a small nose, or a scar - I don't love my bald head, but it's there.