Follicular Fantasies Come True at Vera Clinic In Turkey

Follicular Fantasies Come True at Vera Clinic In Turkey

Ever fancied a bit of a change, something to spruce up the old noggin? Well, join me on a right old adventure, one that took me all the way to Istanbul, to the doors of Vera Clinic. Not your average holiday destination, unless you're in the market for a new head of hair, that is. This ain't just any tale; it's a proper journey of ups, downs, and all the bits in between, led by none other than Dr. Arslan Dogan and his team. From a bloke with a thinning top to, well, you'll see – this story's got it all. Buckle up; we're heading to Turkey, and trust me, it's gonna be a ride worth reading about.

So there I was, havin’ a butchers in the mirror one crisp morning, and what do I see? My noggin, havin’ a right giggle at my expense. Not the kind of chuckle you’d share with your mates after a cheeky pint, but the universe having a laugh at my receding thatch. My barnet, once a lush field of dreams, now lookin’ more like a barren wasteland. Brought back memories of the days when my locks were more than just somethin’ to keep me noggin warm; they were a blooming statement. From a Beatles knockoff mop-top to a disaster of a mullet — party at the front, tragedy at the back. And now, here I am, pondering the previously unthinkable: a hair transplant. Life’s got a funny way of taking you from headbanger’s hairdos to scouting hair clinics, doesn’t it?

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

The grim reveal of my head’s betrayal wasn’t mirrored or even gently hinted at by me dear old mum. Nah, it was the brutal morning discovery of more hair on the pillow than atop my noggin that rang the alarm bells. The crew had a right laugh over that, they did. “Blimey, mate, you’re on your way to being as shiny as a snooker ball!” they’d cackle, poking fun as if I wasn’t already doing a silent vigil for each fallen strand. Their ribbing, far from the supportive pats you might hope for, actually nudged me down the path to follicle redemption. Little did I reckon, this was just the start of a saga more tangled than me Grandma’s knitting yarn.

“Look at it this way,” one chum chimed in, trying to put a positive spin on it, “You’ll save a fortune on shampoo!” Not exactly the consolation I was after, especially when I was facing the prospect of my scalp turning into a barren landscape. Every chuckle and jest, intended or not, lit a fire under me to seek out a miracle cure. What began as a bit of banter at the pub soon morphed into a full-blown quest for hair rejuvenation, with more ups and downs than a rollercoaster at Blackpool Pleasure Beach.

Me, a bloke who used to take the mickey out of hair loss ads, was now poring over them like sacred texts. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, once the king of quips about dodgy comb-overs and hair-in-a-can solutions, suddenly on the prowl for anything that promised a return to me former hairy glory. “From the thick locks of youth to the thin whispers of age,” I’d muse to myself, sounding like a bad novel. But the jesting from the mates, that was the real kicker. It’s all fun and games until your head becomes the butt of the joke.

So, with a mix of dread and defiance, I ventured into the unknown, ready to tackle this head-on (pun intended). Each jibe from the lads, each jesting remark, wasn’t just banter; it was a call to action. The path to hair recovery was littered with snake oils and false prophets, but it was a path I was now determined to tread. Who knew the journey from a full bush to a sparse desert would be such a wake-up call? But there it was, the challenge laid bare, as glaring as the increasingly visible expanse of my forehead.

The Google Guru

With me optimism hanging by a thread and the World Wide Web at me fingertips, I dived headfirst into the cyber sea of hair transplant lore. Words like “Follicular Unit Extraction” and “Donor Site” began to fox-trot through me noggin, leaving me feeling more muddled than a Cockney in Scotland. Every bleedin’ night, I was at it, scouring the net like a detective, eyes practically welded to videos of chaps parading their lush thatches like peacocks. “Eureka!” I thought, a bit too chuffed with meself, believing I’d sussed out the secret formula to sprouting hair anew with just a few taps and clicks. Thought I was the dog’s bollocks of hair knowledge, I did.

But oh, how the mighty fall. There I was, gobsmacked by every new tab, thinking I was piecing together me own personal hair resurrection. “This ain’t rocket science,” I told meself, smug as a bug, every time I stumbled upon another ‘revolutionary’ treatment. It was like I’d found the map to El Dorado, except this treasure was a full head of hair. I started throwing around the jargon in casual chats, fancying myself a bit of a guru. “You see, it’s all about the donor density,” I’d lecture, parroting phrases I barely understood to anyone who’d listen, even the cat seemed keen to escape my ramblings.

The deeper I got, the more I realized I was paddling in the shallow end of a very deep pool. For every straightforward article, there was another that read like it was written in hieroglyphics. “Blimey, what’s this gobbledygook?” I’d mutter, scratching me head which, ironically, needed no more scratching. I was turning into one of those internet know-it-alls, quoting studies and statistics over a pint as if I’d suddenly gained a PhD in hair-ology overnight.

In between the bouts of self-assured nods to the computer screen and the occasional “aha!” moments, the penny slowly started to drop. This journey, littered with tech speak and testimonials, was a bit more complex than finding the best curry house in East London. Little did I know, my crash course in hair transplants was barely scratching the surface. The real lessons, the ones that would test my patience and resolve, were waiting just around the bend, ready to throw a spanner in the works of my DIY doc dreams.

Down the local, pint in hand, ready to spill the beans on me late-night escapades in the land of internet wisdom. “Lads, reckon it’s worth hopping on a plane for a bit of a barnet refurb?” I tossed into the mix, fully expecting a torrent of wind-ups. And oh, did they deliver – the advice was as varied as the selection of crisps at the bar, ranging from the blunt “Why not just do a Kojak and be done with it, mate?” to the ever-so-helpful “Put a wig on it and call it a day!”

Dave, who’s been bald since we were in nappies and wears it like a badge of honour, was the first to pipe up. “You’re gonna fly all the way to Turkey for a few sprouts on your noggin? Mate, embrace the bald. It’s liberating!” He slapped his shiny dome for emphasis, nearly blinding me in the process.

Then there was Gaz, always the joker, who reckoned, “Why not get a tattoo up there? Make it look like you’ve got a full head of hair from a distance.” A round of cackles followed, with someone suggesting a tattoo of a ruler, so it at least looked like I was measuring up to something.

But it was Old Mick, the sage of the pub, who’d been quietly nursing his stout, that leaned in with a twinkle in his eye. “Listen here, young’un. If it’s gonna make you feel better, then why the hell not? But remember, it’s not just about the hair on your head, it’s the confidence it brings. Plus, Istanbul’s lovely this time of year.”

The banter was relentless, but amidst the jests and jibes, there was a nugget of truth. Each comment, each laugh shared over our drinks, was their way of showing support, in the most sideways manner possible. It was clear; the journey to a fuller head wasn’t going to be straightforward, but then again, when had anything worth doing ever been easy?

As the night wore on, and the pints turned to rounds of the hard stuff, the conversation drifted from follicular follies to football and other fancies. But the seed was planted. Maybe, just maybe, amidst the jests and the laughter, there was a solution. Not just a solution for the hair, but for the adventure it promised. It was more than just about getting a few strands back; it was about taking a leap, spurred on by the lads, into something new, something a bit mad – like flying off to Turkey based on a mix of internet research and pub wisdom. But then again, isn’t that what life’s about? Taking the mick out of each other one minute, pushing each other towards new horizons the next.

Dreaming of Istanbul

There I was yeah, one of them late-night deep dives into the internet, you know how it goes, scrolling past midnight looking for any glimmer of hope for me thinning top. and bam, stumbled upon this place, Vera Clinic it was, right smack in the heart of Istanbul. something about it just felt right, like maybe this was the answer i’d been on the hunt for, started picturing meself with a proper thick head of hair again, wouldn’t that be a sight?

And this Dr. Arslan Dogan bloke, kept popping up, like he was the man with the plan when it came to sorting out sad saps like me, his before and after shots were nothing short of magic, i’m telling ya, looking at them, you’d think the blokes had been wearing invisible wigs or something before he got his hands on ’em.

Gabbing to the lads down the pub the next evening, “Oi, reckon I might have found the golden ticket here, lads, off to Istanbul for a new do,” expecting a right ribbing, but Dave, he’s always been a bit of a dreamer, gets this wide-eyed look and goes, “Istanbul, eh? Fancy a bit of a holiday do you, while you’re at it?”

And then Gaz, he’s chipping in, “Make sure you don’t come back looking like you’ve got a dead badger on your head, mate.” Cheers, Gaz, always one for the supportive comments, he is. but even with their leg-pulling, couldn’t help but feel a bit of excitement bubbling up, like maybe, just maybe, this Dr. Dogan fella could work some of his magic on me too.

The more we chatted, the more real it felt, not just some daft idea cooked up after one too many, but a proper plan, could really be doing this, heading to Istanbul, chasing after what felt a bit like a fairy tale, but one where I might just end up with a head full of hair at the end, and that, that was a dream worth chasing, wasn’t it?

Making The Call

There I was, palms all sweaty like I was about to confess my love in some cheesy romcom, finally worked up the nerve to give Vera Clinic a bell. was proper bricking it, not gonna lie. expecting a right old to-do, talking about the balding bonce and all that. but, blow me down, the person on the other end was a right gem, made it easy as pie to chat about me follicular fiasco.

“Hello, Vera Clinic, Dr. Arslan Dogan’s office,” comes this voice, smooth and welcoming, like a warm pint on a cold day. I’m stuttering through the intro, “Uh, hiya, I was wondering about, uh, hair stuff?” Smooth, real smooth.

The voice didn’t catch the name, but let’s call her Angie, cause why not, Angie’s telling me all about what they do, how Dr. Dogan is the bee’s knees at sorting out receding hairlines and whatnot. and there’s me, trying to sound all knowledgeable, throwing in the odd bit of jargon I remembered, “Yeah, I’m quite interested in the, um, follicular unit whatsit and the donor thingy,” hoping I’m making sense.

Angie, bless her, doesn’t bat an eyelid, just goes on about how they’ve helped loads of blokes and how Istanbul’s not just for kebabs and bazaars, but top-notch for hair transplants too. she even laughs at me attempts to sound clued up, in a nice way, mind. tells me, “Don’t worry, we’ll explain everything when you’re here, Dr. Dogan’s got it all in hand.”

By the end of it I’m feeling like a weight’s been lifted. wasn’t expecting to feel so at ease, talking about what’s been giving me the heebie-jeebies for months. it’s funny, one minute you’re all at sea, the next you’re chatting away like old mates about heading to Turkey for a bit of a hair holiday.

Hanging up, I’m thinking, “Well, that’s that then,” feeling a mix of nerves and excitement. like stepping into the unknown but with a guide who knows all the twists and turns. Angie made it sound so straightforward, like popping to the shop for some milk, except this shop’s in Istanbul and you come back with more hair than you left with.

Journey to the East

So here I am, right, mix of butterflies and buzzin’, stepping onto the plane that’s gonna whisk me off to Istanbul. Never been further east than the chippy on High Street, and now I’m off to Turkey, all for the sake of me thinning thatch. As I shuffle down the aisle, trying not to wallop anyone with me bag, I figure, why not have a crack at the local lingo? Impress the flight attendant, don’t I think?

“Merhaba,” I blurt out, proud as punch, when she comes by with the drinks trolley. Her eyebrow goes up, and she’s trying not to giggle, “Would you like anything to drink, sir?” in clear as day English. Turns out, my attempt at ‘hello’ sounded more like I’d asked for a marinated herring. Cheeks burning, I mutter something about a cuppa tea, feeling every bit the daft git.

The rest of the flight’s a blur of nerves and dodgy in-flight movies, me mind racing about what’s waiting on the other end. Every time I think about the clinic and getting me hair sorted, I can’t help but wonder if I’m mad. “Flying all this way for a few hairs,” I keep thinking, “Me mates are gonna have a field day.”

First Impressions

Touching down in Istanbul, it’s all a whirl. The airport’s buzzing, and I’m half expecting to get lost before I even step outside. Following the signs, and a crowd that seems to know where they’re going, I finally make it to the pickup spot for the clinic. A bloke holding a sign with me name on it, looking all professional, is me ride. I can’t help but feel a right Charlie, standing there in me jeans and trainers, looking every bit the tourist.

The drive to Vera Clinic’s an eye-opener. Istanbul’s heaving, alive with sights and sounds, and I’m glued to the window like a kid at a sweet shop. Then we pull up at the clinic, and it’s nothing like I expected. It’s posh, proper posh, and there’s me, feeling like I’ve walked into a five-star hotel by mistake.

Walking into the clinic, it’s all sleek and shiny, people bustling about, and I’m suddenly conscious of me dodgy barnet. I’m half-tempted to do a runner, thinking I’m way out of me depth. “What am I doing here?” I keep asking meself feeling like a right plonker as I give me name at reception. The receptionist, all smiles, doesn’t bat an eyelid, but I’m sure she’s had a giggle on the inside.

It’s a far cry from the GP’s back home, and as I take a seat, waiting to be called in, I can’t help but feel like I’ve stepped into another world. All this, just for the chance to not have to slap sunscreen on me dome every time the sun decides to show up. “You’re not in London anymore,” I think, wondering if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.

Meeting Dr. Dogan

There I was, waiting to meet Dr. Arslan Dogan, proper bricking it I was. Expecting some stern, no-nonsense doc to come marching out and give me an earful about me neglectful hair care regime or lack thereof. Instead, out comes this bloke, Dr. Dogan, all smiles and handshakes, couldn’t have been nicer. A real gent, not at all what I was gearing up for.

“Ah, you must be the gentleman from the UK,” he says, like we’re old mates catching up, not a bead of judgement in his voice. And there’s me, trying to remember the last time I even used conditioner, feeling a bit sheepish.

We sit down, and he starts going over what’s what with me scalp – in a way that’s easy to get, not drowning in med-speak that’d go over me head. It’s like he’s explaining the offside rule, simple and to the point. “Here’s the situation,” he starts, pointing at some before and after pics of blokes who’d had the procedure. “We can definitely sort you out,” he says, and I’m all ears.

Dr. Dogan goes through the process, what to expect, the whole nine yards, but it’s not like being lectured. It’s more like a chat over a cuppa, except we’re talking about harvesting hair from the back of me head. Who’d have thought?

He asks about what I’m hoping to get out of this, and I tell him, straight up, “Just wanna look in the mirror and not see me dad staring back, no offence to him.” Dr. Dogan laughs, says he gets it all the time. By the end of it, I’m feeling more clued up about what’s gonna happen to me noggin than I ever thought possible. Got a proper schooling on hair, but in a good way, like when you finally understand something you’ve been scratching your head over for ages.

Leaving his office, I felt a mix of relief and excitement. Relief that Dr. Dogan was such a top bloke, not the hair tyrant I’d cooked up in me imagination. And excitement at the thought that this could actually work, that I might soon have a reason to buy shampoo again. Walking out, I couldn’t help but feel a bit more hopeful about the whole thing. Maybe, just maybe, this was gonna turn out alright.

The Plan Unfolds

Waiting in a bit of a posh room, I’m trying to act the part, like I know what’s coming next. Dr. Dogan comes back in, all geared up to dive into the nitty-gritty of getting me hair back on track. He’s laying out the plan, all professional-like, but me, I’m doing me best to keep up with all the doctor lingo. It’s like he’s speaking another language at times, with all this talk about “grafts” and “donor areas.” I’m nodding along, trying to look savvy, but inside I’m thinking, “What the heck is he on about?”

Then, he pulls out this chart, right, showing how they’re gonna move bits of hair from here to there, like they’re rearranging furniture or something. It’s all a bit much, but Dr. Dogan’s patient, explaining it step by step, making sure I’m following along. “We’ll take good care of you,” he says, and I’m starting to feel like maybe this ain’t such a mad idea after all.

At one point, he’s going on about the success rates, and I crack a joke, trying to lighten the mood a bit, “So, what you’re saying is, I won’t end up looking like a plucked chicken?” Dr. Dogan chuckles, assures me I’ll be far from featherless. It’s good, that, having a bit of banter. Makes the whole thing feel less like a medical procedure and more like something we’re teaming up on.

By the end of it all, I’m sitting there, a bit dazed but with a clear picture of what’s gonna happen. “Let’s do it,” I blurt out, surprising even meself. “Let’s get those follicles on the move.” Dr. Dogan’s face lights up, pleased as punch that I’m on board. We shake on it, and just like that, I’ve signed up to get me head sorted. Walking out of that office, I feel a mix of nerves and excitement, like I’m about to take the leap of a lifetime. And I think, “This is it, no turning back now. Let’s see if they can make a silk purse out of this sow’s ear.”


Woke up with a start, today’s the day, innit? Feels like I’m gearing up to leap off a cliff, except it’s me hairline that’s on the line, not me life. The butterflies in me stomach are having a rave, and I can’t tell if I’m excited or just plain terrified.

As I’m getting ready, trying to shove down a bit of breakfast, can’t help but think about what’s coming. “Today’s the day you get sorted,” I keep telling meself, like a mantra. It’s a bit like gearing up for a big match, only I’m not exactly sure what team I’m playing for.

Heading to the clinic, the city’s buzzing around me, but I’m in me own little bubble, mind racing a mile a minute. “What if it don’t go as planned?” “What if I end up looking worse?” Me head’s a jumble of what-ifs, but there’s no turning back now.

In The Chair

Sitting in the chair, it’s all a bit surreal. There’s a buzz of activity around me, and I’m trying to act cool, like this is just another Tuesday. The nurse, she’s a right friendly sort, starts prepping stuff, and I’m there, attempting to make small talk to distract meself.

“So, done anything nice this weekend?” I blurt out, sounding more like I’m interested in her social life than I am in hiding me nerves. She smiles, plays along, telling me about her quiet weekend in. It’s strange, chatting away while I’m about to have bits of me head rearranged.

Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of Dr. Dogan getting ready, and it’s like watching a pilot prep for takeoff. Me? I’m just strapped in, hoping for a smooth flight. The nurse keeps checking in, asking if I’m alright, and I nod, throwing in a quip about how I’ve had haircuts more stressful than this – a blatant lie, but we both pretend it’s funny.

As they start the procedure, it’s a weird mix of sensations and sounds. I’m lying there, feeling every bit the specimen, while trying to keep up a banter with the nurse. “Always wanted to know what it’s like to be a science project,” I joke, and she chuckles, saying I’m one of the braver ones. Brave or not, there’s no denying this is one of the oddest experiences of me life. Yet, amidst the oddity, there’s this undercurrent of hope, like maybe, just maybe, this will all be worth it.

Post-Op Pro

Coming out of the procedure, I’m a bit wobbly on me feet, feeling every inch the wounded soldier but with a strange sense of pride bubbling up. It’s done, I’ve actually gone and done it. The nurse, bless her, hands me a mirror, and the bloke looking back at me is a stranger. Head wrapped up, a bit swollen, I barely recognize myself. “Who’s this then?” I joke, trying to cut the tension I feel seeing the new me. It’s a bit of a shock to the system, seeing the aftermath, but there’s this hopeful little voice in me head saying it’ll be worth it.

Them first few days post-op, it’s like being in a fog of sorts, with me head feeling like it’s done ten rounds with a heavyweight, and the itchiness, oh mate, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. It’s testing me patience, it is. Lying there, trying me hardest not to give into the urge to scratch like a dog with fleas, got me thinking deeper than I usually do. This whole escapade, it ain’t just about sprouting a few new strands on the old dome; it’s a bit like reclaiming a part of meself I thought I’d lost for good.

Every now and then, I’m catching a glimpse of meself in the mirror, and it’s a bit of a shocker every time. Not quite recognising the fella staring back. And in these moments, I’m having these realisations, like lightbulb moments they are. This whole mad journey, it’s not just about the hair, or the lack thereof. It’s been a sort of wake-up call, a realisation of how much of me mojo was tied up in me locks, or the disappearing act they were pulling.

Sitting there, looking a bit like a bruised pineapple, I’m thinking to meself, “This is bonkers, all this drama over hair.” But the more I mull it over, the more I see it’s bigger than that. It ain’t just hair, is it? It’s about getting a piece of yourself back, something that makes you feel like you again. It’s about taking a stand, in a way, deciding to do something that makes you feel good, despite the naysayers or the inner doubts.

As the days go by, and the initial discomfort starts to ease off, these feelings of doubt begin to shift. I’m starting to see this not as just a recovery from some cosmetic procedure, but as a recovery of me confidence, a bit of the old swagger coming back. “Maybe it’s not so daft, after all,” I catch meself thinking. It’s like I’ve taken a gamble on meself, and while the jury’s still out on the final outcome, I’m feeling more and more like it’s a bet I’m glad I placed.

And there’s this weird sense of pride too, knowing I’ve gone through with it, faced me fears head-on (pun intended), and come out the other side. It’s early days yet, and I’m not about to start counting me chickens before they hatch, but there’s a glimmer of hope there, a sense of anticipation for what’s to come. This whole experience, it’s been a rollercoaster and no mistake, but maybe, just maybe, it’s one I needed to ride.

Back Home Banter

Finally heading back to face the music with the lads, I’m braced for the onslaught of banter that’s sure to come. “Here he is, Hollywood!” they shout as I walk in, and the jokes start flying faster than pints on a Friday night. “Got yourself a new rug, have ya?” “Who’d you think you are now, Brad Pitt?” They’re relentless, but it’s all in good fun.

Underneath the ribbing, though, I can tell they’re impressed, even if they’d rather eat their hats than admit it. And me? I’m walking on air, feeling like I’ve conquered Everest. The teasing, the laughs, it’s all part of the process, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because at the end of the day, I’ve come out the other side feeling like a new man, or at least a slightly refurbished one. And that feeling, that sense of triumph, is something you can’t put a price on.

The Reveal

Time comes for the big reveal, it’s like stepping out on stage, heart pounding, spotlight on me – or more accurately, on me new hair. First up, showing me mum, who’s been half curious, half worried since I told her what I was up to. Her reaction? Priceless. “Oh, it looks… very nice, dear,” she says, but her eyes are saying, “Who are you and what have you done with me son?” Bless her, she’s trying to get her head round it, same as me.

Next up, the local pub. Walking in, it’s like the record stops, everyone turns to have a gander. “Who’s this then?” they’re all thinking, till they recognize the mug underneath the new thatch. Reactions are all over the shop, some taking the mickey, “Look who’s gone and got himself a fancy new do,” while others are genuinely impressed, “Not bad, mate, not bad at all.”

And there’s me, strutting about with a bit of a swagger I didn’t have before. It’s strange how a bit of hair can make you feel like you’ve got a new lease on life. I’m soaking up the attention, the good and the bad, feeling a bit like a peacock showing off its feathers. It’s a mix of pride and a bit of nerves, wondering if everyone’s just being nice or if they actually think it looks good.

Hair Care Extraordinaire

Now, with this new barnet comes a whole new world of hair care – a world I never thought I’d be part of. Me? I used to be a shampoo-and-go kind of bloke, but now I’m standing in front of the hair care aisle like it’s the pearly gates. There’s so much stuff, I’m baffled. Shampoos, conditioners, serums, oils – it’s a minefield.

First time I tried to condition, ended up using half the bottle, thinking more is better, right? Wrong. Came out looking like I’d dunked me head in a chip fryer. And don’t get me started on styling products. Tried this one gel, ended up with hair so stiff a gale-force wind wouldn’t budge it. It’s all trial and error, mostly error on my part.

But, I’m getting the hang of it, slowly but surely. Starting to get why people fuss over their hair so much. It’s not just about looking good; it’s about feeling good, taking care of yourself. Never thought I’d be the sort to have a “hair routine,” but here I am, learning the ropes, one embarrassing mistake at a time. And you know what? It’s not half bad, being part of the hair care crowd. Gives you a sense of belonging, like you’re part of a secret club, only this one’s got a membership fee of one hair transplant and a willingness to learn from your muck-ups.


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