Minoxidil Shedding Phase: How Long and How to Survive It

Ugh, another night. It’s like, 2:17 AM and I’m staring at my screen, thinking about how I *almost* let myself get totally scammed out of my last shred of self-respect and whatever was left in my checking account. All because of some damn hair. Or, more accurately, the *lack* of hair, and the sheer terror of losing even more when I was trying to get it back. Yeah, I’m talking about the **Minoxidil shedding phase**. Because, let me tell you, that shit is designed by some sadistic genius who clearly has a full head of hair and a trust fund.

It’s been over two years now since I started this whole journey with Roman’s topical finasteride and minoxidil spray, and honestly, some days I still have nightmares about those first few months. Like that dream I had last week where my barber was just laughing, holding up a giant clump of my hair, and then my ex walked in looking all smug with her new dude, who, OF COURSE, has a perfect, thick head of hair. What is it with exes and their ability to find partners who represent everything you currently lack? It’s not fair, man. It’s just not fair. I mean, my hair was already bad enough. Receding since 32, rocking hats indoors by 34 like some sort of pathetic, wannabe skater boy who’s too old for that shit. So when I finally decided to actually *do* something about it, after years of wasting money on every snake oil under the sun—seriously, I spent like, $127 on those goddamn caffeine shampoos that smelled like a bad frat party and did absolutely nothing, and don’t even get me started on the $847 for that fancy laser comb from a pop-up store in Santa Monica that just gave me a headache—I thought I was finally on the right track. My friend, Mark, who actually *knows things* and isn’t just trying to sell me essential oils, told me about Roman. I was skeptical, obviously. Been burned too many times. But the free 2-minute quiz? Easy. Private. No insurance crap to deal with. So I figured, whatever, what’s another five minutes down the drain, right?

Then came the shedding.

**Why does minoxidil shedding make me feel like a total idiot?**

Seriously, the mental gymnastics you do when you’re already feeling insecure about your hair is insane. You start a treatment to *regrow* hair, and then, for weeks, it looks like you’re actively accelerating the apocalypse on your scalp. Every shower, every brush through my pathetic strands, every time I caught a glimpse of myself in a reflective surface (which, working from home as a blogger, is basically just my laptop screen and the oven door), it was like my hair was staging a mass exodus. I swear, the drain in my shower looked like a tiny, furry animal had died there every single morning. And for what? For *hope*? It felt like a cruel joke. Like the universe was just sitting back, sipping a latte, and watching me squirm.

I remember this one time, about a month and a half in, I was meeting up with an old client for a quick coffee. He didn’t say anything, but I swear his eyes darted to my hairline for just a split second too long. My hairline, which at this point, was probably worse than before I started. I spent the rest of the meeting just trying to strategically angle my head so the light didn’t hit it “just so,” sweating bullets under my baseball cap. I wanted to just scream, “IT’S THE SHEDDING PHASE, DAMMIT, IT’S SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!” But who says that? Only a desperate, slightly unhinged 37-year-old man who’s terrified of going bald. Me, basically.

My initial thought? “This is it. I’ve wasted more money. This Roman stuff is just another scam, another fancy bottle of nothing.” I mean, I had already thrown away like, $1200 on that pricey dermatologist in Beverly Hills who basically took one look at my head, muttered “it’s genetics,” and then handed me a bill that could’ve covered my groceries for two months. So, yeah, I was a little… sensitive to perceived failures. I was convinced I was going to be one of those guys whose hair just *kept* shedding, forever, until I was just a shiny, sad bowling ball. I’m still bitter about the $1,200 I wasted on that quack. I bought it because he had a fancy waiting room with a waterfall. Waterfall, my ass.

Anyway, the point is, it makes you feel like an absolute *loser*. Like you’re failing at the one thing you’re trying to fix. And when you’re already feeling like your youth is slipping through your fingers faster than a greased watermelon, that kind of feeling really just… compounds things. You know?

**How long does minoxidil shedding *actually* last?**

Okay, so this is the million-dollar question, right? Because when you’re in the thick of it, every single day feels like an eternity. I was scouring forums, watching YouTube videos of guys who looked suspiciously like they already had good hair, just trying to find some kind of definitive answer. Some dude said two weeks, another said six months. It was a goddamn free-for-all of conflicting information, and my anxiety was through the roof.

For me? It was about **three months** of what felt like genuinely alarming hair loss. Three long, brutal months where I considered just shaving it all off and embracing the Vin Diesel look, except I’m 5’9″ and look more like a slightly deflated balloon than a muscle-bound action hero. I mean, my hair was already getting thin at the crown, and the shedding just seemed to amplify it. I’d wake up, check my pillow, and it was like a tiny crime scene of fallen follicles. This was around late spring 2023, I think, because I remember being so annoyed I couldn’t enjoy the nicer weather without worrying about wind gusts exposing my scalp. My barber, bless his heart, even delicately asked if I was “trying a new style” one time, which is barber-speak for “dude, your hair looks worse than ever.” That was a low point, let me tell you. I almost just walked out of that place and never came back.

Oh, shit, my phone just vibrated. 3% battery. Classic. Hang on, gotta plug this in. Don’t want to lose all this cathartic ranting. Okay, we’re good.

My point is, it’s not a gentle phase. It’s a full-on, hair-everywhere, panic-inducing, “why am I doing this to myself” kind of phase. And nobody really tells you just how mentally taxing it is. They just say, “Oh, it’s normal!” Normal for who? For people who don’t care about their hair? I care, damn it! I’m still mad that I went through that period of heightened self-consciousness. Still. Mad.

Anyway, after about three months, maybe a little over, it started to slow down. Like, noticeably. Not just me wishing it was slowing down, but actually fewer hairs in the drain, fewer on my pillow. And then, slowly, *slowly*, I started to see something else. Little, tiny, almost invisible hairs. Like baby fuzz. It wasn’t exactly a glorious mane, but it was *something*. It was enough to make me think, “Okay, maybe this isn’t just a giant joke at my expense.” It felt like I’d just survived a really bad breakup and was finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Or like when you finally finish a client project that’s been dragging on forever and they actually pay you. That kind of relief.

Roman Finasteride and Minoxidil Combo: My 6-Month Update details some of that initial regrowth, if you’re curious about the actual photos. Spoiler: I look less like a molting bird.

**How to survive minoxidil shedding without going bald (or insane)?**

Look, I’m not a doctor. I’m just a guy who blogged about matcha lattes for a living and then accidentally stumbled into the hair loss niche because, well, it happened to me. So take this with a grain of salt, or a whole shaker, whatever. These are just things that *I* did, mostly out of desperation, that helped me not totally lose my mind.

1. **Stop obsessing in the mirror (as much as you can):** This one sounds obvious, but it’s HARD. I used to spend like, five minutes every morning, tilting my head under different lights, trying to count the hairs on my pillow, running my hands through my hair to see what fell out. It was a ritual of self-torture. Just… try to look less. It’s gonna look bad. You know it’s gonna look bad. Acknowledge it, then try to distract yourself. Go make a stupid avocado toast for your blog. Whatever. My neighbor, that guy with the perfectly manicured lawn and the smug smile, probably thought I was having a mid-life crisis staring into my own reflection like that. And maybe I was. I mean, I still have zero idea why the shedding phase actually works the way it does, but someone on Reddit said it’s about pushing out old hairs for new ones, whatever. I just wanted it to STOP.

2. **Distract yourself with other stuff (even if it’s dumb):** This is where my “Gourmet Style Wellness” blog actually came in handy. Instead of dwelling on my receding hairline, I’d throw myself into perfecting some ridiculously complicated sourdough recipe or trying to photograph a turmeric latte in “natural light” which, in my apartment, means finding the one spot where the sun isn’t directly blasting or completely absent. I also binged like, three seasons of some really trashy reality TV show about rich kids in OC. It worked. For a few hours, my main concern was whether Tiffany was going to confront Brittany about Brad. It was a nice escape from the endless cycle of “Is my hair worse today?” The brain needs a break. It’s not a cure, obviously, but it’s a mental lifeline.

3. **Remind yourself of the “why” (and get some real perspective):** This one sounds a bit like self-help crap, which I usually hate, but honestly, it helped. I kept a picture of myself from when I was 30, with a relatively full head of hair, right next to a picture from 35, where I was practically wearing a hat to bed. The contrast was stark. I wasn’t doing this for vanity, not entirely. I was doing it because the hair loss was genuinely affecting my confidence, my mood, how I interacted with people. I hated feeling like I had to angle myself away from people, or strategically place my hand during conversations. So when the shedding got really bad, I’d look at those pictures and tell myself, “This is temporary. It’s supposed to happen. It’s part of the process to get back to *that*.” It was a tiny light in a very dark, hair-filled tunnel. Plus, I remembered how much I *hated* that dermatologist who just shrugged and said “genetics.” This was my rebellion against that. My middle finger to genetic fate, whatever.

I mean, look, it’s not like I suddenly grew a perfect head of hair overnight. That’s not how this works. But after those three months of hell, and then another few months, I started seeing real, noticeable changes. My barber even commented on it, unsolicited! He said, “Your hair looks… fuller, Alex. What are you doing?” That was probably a few months after the shedding stopped, maybe around October 2023. That felt good. Really good. Better than any compliment I got on my artisanal avocado toast, I’ll tell you that much. By the time I hit the one-year mark, my hairline was definitely better. Finasteride Hairline Before and After: 1 Year Transformation shows exactly what I mean. My crown, which was always a big anxiety point, had filled in enough that I didn’t feel like I needed to constantly check it in reflections.

Now, over two years in, December 2025, it’s stable. My confidence is back. I still wear hats sometimes, but it’s because I *want* to, not because I *have* to. It’s a huge difference. The shedding phase sucked. Like, truly, deeply sucked. It made me want to rage-quit everything, throw my Roman spray out the window, and just embrace baldness with a bitter sneer. But I stuck with it. And it worked.

So, if you’re currently staring into the abyss of your shower drain, watching your hopes (and hair) disappear, just remember: it’s part of the process. It’s temporary. It’s brutal, yes, but it’s often a sign that the stuff is actually doing something. And if you’re like me, tired of wasting money on crap that doesn’t work, maybe check out Roman’s free quiz. It’s super quick, totally private, and you don’t even need insurance. It’s discreet, too – no giant “HAIR LOSS” labels on the box. They just send it in plain packaging, which is nice when you’re already feeling self-conscious. Don’t be like me and waste years and hundreds of dollars before trying something that actually, properly works.

Oh, wait. My cat just puked on the rug. And it looks like I didn’t take out the trash yesterday, because the kitchen smells like a dead raccoon. Gotta go.