NICK EDE reveals how a hair transplant saved him from suicide

Just before Christmas last year it was time to buy myself a present.

I finally decided to do something about the thing that had quietly haunted me for years: my hair.

I'm in my early 50s now, and I've spent half my life feeling like an imposter with the confident media personality on the outside, the anxious, self-critical man on the inside.

Losing my hair only magnified that feeling. In my world full of cameras, events, and red carpets, appearances matter more than we like to admit.

But every time I saw my thinning hair in the mirror, I felt a little less like myself.

So I did what many men do: I hid. If it was raining I'd usually cancel my plans. My bathroom was full of different powders and spays in shades of brown to cover every patch.

I'd plan my nights out around lighting conditions, avoiding anywhere too bright.

Then came Finasteride - the so-called wonder drug. It stopped my hair from falling out, and for a while, I felt in control again. 

But slowly, something darker crept in.

I started to feel… wrong. I'd be cooking dinner and find myself staring at the knives, wondering which one I'd use.

I'd stand at the railway station and calculate how to throw myself onto the tracks with the minimum of fuss.

It was terrifying and it didn't make sense. Until a conversation with a friend changed everything.

They told me they'd been prescribed Finasteride as part of their hormonal treatment and had experienced suicidal thoughts.

That was exactly what I'd been feeling. I stopped taking it immediately and within weeks, the fog began to lift and my hair began to fall out again.

They do warn that there is a one per cent chance of suicidal thoughts, and I suppose I was that person. It was very scary.

I've battled with depression on and off throughout my life sometimes quietly, I've had dark periods, but I've also learned how to manage them.

Men's health often gets sidelined physically and mentally. According to the Movember Foundation, three out of four suicides in the UK are men.

Suicide remains the leading cause of death among men under 50 not cancer, not heart disease, but silence. 

That silence nearly got me too.

And social media doesn't help. When the algorithm keeps serving you men with chiselled abs, perfect hairlines, and sculpted jaws, your sense of worth begins to crumble.

You start comparing yourself to strangers, and suddenly you're measuring your happiness in filters and follow counts. Even for someone like me who works in the media and knows how edited everything is it still plays with your mind.

And now, in my 50s, I'm finally doing the work. I run 5K a day, I've started seeing a therapist and I'm proud of it. I've started to read some excellent books that are a real help. The author Owen O'Kane is really good at simplifying emotions with his bestsellers Ten to Zen and Addicted to Anxiety being my go-to books by my bedside.

As the founder of the Style for Stroke Foundation, I've spent years raising awareness about stroke prevention and recovery yet I wasn't truly looking after myself.

The irony wasn't lost on me when, after a routine check-up, I was told my cholesterol was sky-high. It was hereditary, the doctor said, and I needed to act fast.

Statins didn't agree with me, and my doctor prescribed Thyroxine, warning me to lose weight and take better care of myself. But post-lockdown, I'd completely lost motivation. The pounds crept on, none of my clothes fit, and I felt like I'd never get it back. It was affecting my confidence and also my work.

That's when I decided to do something drastic: I gave myself a goal. If I was a campaigner for stroke and someone susceptible to one then I needed to lead by example. So, I signed up for the London Marathon in aid of The Stroke Association.

It wasn't for anyone else. It was for me. A promise to my body that I was done neglecting it. It's a big ask and I started fairly timidly but my friend, the singer Alexandra Burke, was a real support checking in on my progress and motivating me. I'd also admired Hannah Beecham's January campaign RED (Run Every Day) that encourages you to motivate yourself and run daily to support your mental health but also help you lose your festive season fat.

That's why last Christmas, I made a promise to myself to turn all this around. No more hiding. I researched every clinic I could find and booked my procedure at the Wimpole Clinic in London.

I wasn't going to Turkey for a cheap fix this was too important.

The procedure itself was brutal. I've had three nose jobs, veneers, and countless cosmetic tweaks, but nothing prepared me for this. Imagine someone drilling thousands of tiny holes into your scalp for hours.

At one point I thought, 'why didn't I just buy a hat?' The most painful part are the injections that numb your head but once that's over it's a 14 hour procedure and I watched endless Netflix films to pass the time.

The aftercare is the most important part, and you quite literally spend two weeks spraying your hair with saline solution. After a month you can slowly get back to your normal routine of exercise so I started to resume my marathon training and I no one noticed I'd had any work done which was a plus.

Nearly a year has passed and when I look in the mirror now, I see someone who looks and feels alive again.

The results have changed not just how I look, but how I feel about myself. I call this chapter of my life my midlife MOT.

I've started to truly invest in myself not with flashy things, but with meaningful ones.

I ran the London Marathon and I'm paying attention to my physical and mental wellbeing like never before.

And through it all, I've found something I didn't expect: joy.

Recently, I've been speaking publicly with joyologist Donna Easton, exploring what joy really means. Together, we've created Joyfulness Approved - a platform celebrating small, everyday joys that make life richer. This isn't about toxic positivity or pretending everything's perfect. It's about kindness, humour, and the simple things that can change your day and someone else's.

For me, the hair transplant was one of those moments. The joy I felt wasn't superficial; it wasn't vanity. It was the same joy someone might feel from a holiday, a new car, or even a heartfelt conversation. It's not just skin deep (pardon the pun). It's a quiet, healing joy that's been missing for far too long.

People call it a midlife crisis. I call it clarity. You start to realise how short time really is. You stop living for everyone else and start investing in yourself mind, body, and hairline.

So yes, I've had the nose jobs. the veneers. And now, I've had a hair transplant. But I've also learned to run, to talk, to heal and to find joy again.

And if sharing my story helps even one man feel less alone, or see that investing in yourself in any form can be the start of recovery, then every graft, scar, and step has been worth it.

For confidential support, call Samaritans on 116 123, visit samaritans.org or visit https://www.thecalmzone.net/get-support