Leaving the hospital, I climb into my taxi and immediately bump my head on the low ceiling, resulting in a quick assessment back inside the hospital by a doctor and the news I am now down to 4,598 follicles. Back at the five-star Pera Palace hotel, given the amounts of adrenaline – among other chemicals – gradually fed through my cannula earlier, I feel strangely charged. Glancing in the mirror beyond the bandages I don’t see a jaded, bloody-headed patient rather Robert DeNiro in Taxi Driver, pumped up but – given the strict orders to protect my tender head – unable to leave my room!
With the aid of half a Valium tablet, I sleep surprisingly well given I’m propped up at 45 degrees with an array of pillows and a travel neck cushion, which also serves to soak up blood from the donor area. Because you cannot lie on the transplant until it’s healed, I have to sleep like this for the next 12 days.
The next day, I’m summoned back to the hospital for bandage removal and a very delicate wash of the graft areas, allaying any fears I might lose more follicles. Remaining in Istanbul an extra day means I don’t have to endure the ignominy of flying back looking mummified on “Turkish Hairlines” heavily bandaged, although it doesn’t take Miss Marple to deduce the purpose of my trip.
There’s a good reason why Istanbul has become synonymous with hair transplants: at approximately £2,750 for the procedure I had, including travel and a five-star hotel, it’s three times cheaper than the UK and roughly four times less expensive than in the United States.
