Trichotillomania in History - Shakespeare

The master playwright William Shakespeare seems to understand and accept that tearing out one's hair is something that people do from time-to-time; as the following quotes show.

The Rape of Lucrece (Poem, 1594)
[line 1120]

"Let him have time to tear his curled hair,
Let him have time against himself to rave,
Let him have time of time's help to despair,
Let him have time to live a loathed slave,
Let him have time a beggar's orts to crave,
And time to see one that by alms doth live
Disdain to him disdained scraps to give."

Much Ado About Nothing (Play, 1599)
Act 2, Scene 3

Leonato:

O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence, rail'd at herself that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her. 'I measure him,' says she, 'by my own spirit; for I should flout him if he writ to me. Yea, though I love him, I should.'

Claudio:

Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses--'O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!'

Leonato:

She doth indeed; my daughter says so. And the ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afeard she will do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true.

The Tragedy Of Romeo And Juliet (Play, 1595)
Act 3, Scene 3

Friar:

Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Romeo:

Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel.
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
Doting like me, and like me banished,
Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,
And fall upon the ground, as I do now,
Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

The Tragedy Of Titus Andronicus (Play, 1594)
Act 3, Scene 1

Titus:

When will this fearful slumber have an end?

Marcus:

Now farewell, flatt'ry; die, Andronicus.
Thou dost not slumber: see thy two sons' heads,
Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banish'd son with this dear sight
Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I,
Even like a stony image, cold and numb.
Ah! now no more will I control thy griefs.
Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight
The closing up of our most wretched eyes.
Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?

I also found a wonderful description of hair pulling, prompted by grief, in "The Life and Death of King John". Constance is tearing her hair in grief for her son, and those who have suffered grief will no doubt relate to her.

The Life and Death of King John (Play, 1597)
Act 3 -- Scene 4 (in King Philip's tent.)
Several sections have been snipped out for reasons of space.

Constance:

I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost:
I am not mad: I would to heaven I were!
For then, 'tis like I should forget myself:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
[snip]

King Philip:

Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note
In the fair multitude of those her hairs!
Where but by chance a silver drop [a tear] hath fallen,
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends
Do glue themselves in sociable grief,
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

Constance:

To England, if you will.

King Philip:

Bind up your hairs.

Constance:

Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?
I tore them from their bonds and cried aloud
'O that these hands could so redeem my son,
As they have given these hairs their liberty!'
But now I envy at their liberty,
And will again commit them to their bonds,
Because my poor child is a prisoner.
[snip]

King Philip:

You are as fond of grief as of your child.

Constance:

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head,
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!

Thank you Master Wil.