Suki Jones 

Six months after leaving rehab I went for a court-ordered hair strand test, something I’ve been dreading for a while. From the moment I stepped into that sterile testing room to the second I left with a small bald patch at the back of my head, I felt a whirlwind of emotions. This was about more than just proving I’ve been sober; it was about facing the wreckage of my past and the consequences that have rippled through my family.

When I first walked into my children’s court hearing, I knew my history with drinking would come up. My ex knew every last detail of my downward spiral—she’d lived through it. The morning beers, the bottles hidden around the house, the late-night trips to the garage that were really just excuses to get more booze from my stash. She’d watched me crumble, and of course, she had every right to bring it up. It was all she had against me, and honestly, it was enough. More than enough.

I’ve been drinking heavily for as long as I can remember, even before we separated and my affair came to light. But after we split, I fell even deeper into the bottle. It was as if I’d finally been freed, and I drank like I was trying to drown every last feeling inside me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I drank even when the kids were there. I’d have them over for the afternoon and spend most of it sprawled on the sofa, barely able to keep my eyes open. Or worse, I’d lash out in anger over the smallest things. They saw it all, and so did she. I used to resent them for telling their mum, thinking they were ‘grassing’ me up. But now, I see it for what it was—kids who were scared for their dad and didn’t know what else to do.

So, when I asked for 50/50 custody, how could I blame her for using my drinking against me? I’d handed her the ammunition, and she was right to use it. Somewhere deep inside, though, I had this twisted expectation that she’d still be loyal, even after I’d betrayed her trust so profoundly. She’d covered for me for so long, turning a blind eye to the drinking, the lies, even the affair. But now we were in a courtroom, and she was laying it all bare. I can’t blame her. I hate it, but I can’t blame her.

When the court suggested the hair strand test, I agreed without fully understanding what it would involve. I guess I thought it would be a couple of hairs and a quick answer. The court only asked for a three-month sample because, as bad as it got, I’d never put the kids in immediate danger. But in my heart, I know that being passed out drunk while they were in the next room is dangerous enough. Booking the test was straightforward but expensive—nearly £400. They chose an EtG test, which would show whether or not I’d been drinking excessively over the past three months. It wasn’t the full six-month analysis my ex had wanted, but she refused to split the cost, so we went with what I could afford.

I did get my haircut the week before the test, not to cheat, but because I just needed a trim. I made sure there was enough left for the test, though—around 5cm. I showed up at the NHS Medical Centre feeling sick with nerves. The technician led me into a small room and explained the process, then quickly snipped two samples from my crown, leaving me with a bald patch that’s probably more noticeable than I’d like to admit. For someone who’s always been conscious of their appearance, it’s humiliating, but what else can I expect? This is the price I have to pay for my past, and if it means getting closer to my kids, then I’ll wear that bald spot like a badge of honour.

Now, I’m left waiting for the results, knowing that this test could be a turning point. Part of me is angry at my ex for pushing this, for making me go through this process. But then I think about everything I’ve done, all the times I chose the bottle over my family, and I know that this is the least I can do. I can’t change what I’ve put my children through, but I can prove to them—and to myself—that I’m serious about being a better dad. I used to think she was doing this out of spite, to get at me, but maybe she’s just trying to protect the kids. Maybe she’s scared, too.

I always thought a hair strand test would be just one or two hairs, but they took nearly 200. That felt like a brutal metaphor—one hair for every lie, every drink, every broken promise. But it’s done now, and all I can do is wait. This is just another step in the long, painful process of rebuilding what I’ve broken. I can’t undo the damage I’ve caused, but I can keep fighting for my kids, even if it means facing my own reflection and all the dark, twisted parts of myself that I’d rather forget.