Learning Turkish for a Hair Transplant in Türkiye: Jonathan’s Story
- Seda
- 4 days ago
- 7 min read
Continuing my student stories series, this time I’m sharing a piece by Jonathan, one of my former students.
Jonathan started learning Turkish for a very specific reason. He was preparing for a trip to Türkiye for a hair transplant and wanted to be able to communicate for himself while he was there. What began as preparation for a medical journey gradually became part of a much larger experience, taking him and his family to Istanbul and Bursa, bringing Turkish into unexpected moments along the way, and eventually leading him back to Türkiye for a second visit.
Jonathan and I also talked about his hair transplant journey in Türkiye in an earlier video.
This is Jonathan’s story, in his own words.
Türkiye
The sheer sound of this word conjures images of busy streets, the muezzin's call to prayer, and small demitasse cups of rich, robust coffee sipped along the Bosphorus.
For others it brings to mind the great conquerors, Suleiman, the Byzantine Empire. Adventure. Mystery. Rugged landscapes. Intensity and majesty.
All of that is true. And there's more to Türkiye than what I've just described.
Hello. My name is Jonathan, and Türkiye became a symbol of rebirth in my life, a rebirth that restored what I thought I had lost forever.
What Was Lost
Before the age of 40, I had lost about 80 percent of my hair. Part of it was the stress of working in public education in the United States. Part of it was family genetics. Part of it, I believe, was mercury-contaminated food I'd eaten back in 2006.
Alopecia. A man's worst nightmare. Winters had gotten colder. Summers meant sweat pouring from my scalp at the smallest exertion. A part of myself was gone. Forever, I thought.
Or so I thought.
The Idea Takes Root
In 2018, at the height of my baldness, I began a second master's degree in business.
That year I made myself a quiet promise: if I could earn enough money, I would get a hair transplant.
Around that time, my Dutch brother-in-law told me about his own transformation, back in 2006. "It's very affordable and safe in Turkey," he said. "If I can get one, so can you. You just need to travel to Istanbul. You'll be in good hands there."
I'm a librarian by trade, which means research is second nature to me. So, I began to dig and fell down more than a few rabbit holes along the way.
At first, I resisted the idea of going abroad. Why travel there when I can get this done here?
After consulting Bosley, a major American hair-transplant chain, I was told that my surgery price quote would be over $20,000.
That door closed, I set the dream aside until I remembered my brother-in-law's clinic. I asked for the name and reached out to that clinic, only to learn it had shut down. I later learned that Istanbul is home to more than 5,000 hair-transplant clinics, medical centers, and hospitals, generating over a billion dollars a year in medical tourism revenue, and that figure doesn't even include dental work, plastic surgery, or organ transplants.
My contact information, in the meantime, had been passed along to clinics in India. As much as I'd love to visit India someday, a medical trip to India is not something that I wanted. I ended up blocking phone numbers and adding identity-theft protection just to make the calls stop.
Next, my family and I consulted a hair-transplant surgeon in Peru. He was honest with me: my hair loss was too advanced for him to help. His advice, unprompted, was the same as my brother-in-law's: go to Turkey.
Then COVID-19 arrived, and the dream went back on the shelf.
A Gift, Renewed
Sometime during that stretch of COVID-19, I'd confided my frustration to my mother-in-law. She listened, then made me an offer: "Keep researching, and when you find a clinic or hospital you trust, I'll pay for your surgery. You deserve this, after everything you've given to the children you've worked with over the years."
It was a gift, and it renewed my hope. I told myself: give Türkiye a real chance. The more I read about the skill and precision of Turkish surgeons, the more convinced I became that this was the place.
Learning the Language
During this stretch of research, I set two goals: find the right clinic and learn the language.
Twenty years earlier, I'd studied French before a trip to France and still found myself cheated and, once, harassed, simply because my command of the language wasn't strong enough to protect me. Since then, I'd learned that language is the key to safe, honest travel. Spanish had served me well in Peru; Portuguese, in Brazil. It was time to learn Turkish.
This was 2021. No local universities offered it, so I turned to the Turkish Cultural Association in my city. They didn't run adult classes, but they welcomed me to come and practice conversation, and it was there that I met the former Turkish Ambassador to the United States, Mehmet Murat. He was warm and unpretentious. I managed to ask him, in Turkish: "Affedersiniz beyefendi, kütüphaneleri ve kitap okumayı sever misiniz?" "Excuse me, sir, do you like libraries and reading?" He laughed and said yes, though he rarely had the time anymore.
At that same gathering I met Omer, from Samsun on the Black Sea, and we became friends. I mentioned a clinic I was corresponding with, called Clinicana in Istanbul. "If you have the address," he offered, "I can check if it's real." When he next visited family in Turkey, he went to look and found nothing there. He explained to me that many clinics and small businesses in Türkiye list multiple addresses to dodge business taxes. I was heartbroken. But my friend Omer had a suggestion: Acıbadem, both a neighborhood in Istanbul and the largest hospital chain in Türkiye and the wider region.
Around the same time, I enrolled in one-on-one courses with Seda after much searching online. The Turkish language was different from anything I'd studied before: the sounds, the grammar, the logic of it. My teacher Seda patiently walked me through pronunciation. She also let me be creative. For one of my assignments, I decided to record myself washing and vacuuming my car and trying to describe the actions I was performing in Turkish.
However, the word I remember most is sağ ol, "thank you," which turned out to be one of the most useful phrases on both excursions. Through our conversations, Seda led me to Turkish music, Tarkan and Sibel Can especially, which did more for my pronunciation than any textbook. Finally, I also dove into Turkish movies and series on Netflix to help improve my accent. My personal favorites were Kara Para Aşk and Şahmaran.
Bursa, 2022
In July 2022, my family and I landed in Istanbul. After a few days of sightseeing, we were taken to Bursa, Türkiye's third-largest city and home to Acıbadem's hair-transplant unit. The package included a translator.
After roughly seven injections of novocaine into the back of my skull, the translator stopped by my chair. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I won't be with you for the whole procedure. I'm also the building's English-Arabic-Turkish interpreter and their international billing specialist. I'll check back in a few hours."
A hair transplant typically takes seven to eight hours, and you're awake the entire time. Even with the local anesthetic, the swelling can leave your scalp looking, in the mirror, faintly like a large mushroom.
Somewhere in the middle of it, silently praying, I suddenly needed the bathroom. I managed: "Banyo nerede lütfen?" Then, sitting up: "Yardım edin, canım yanıyor. Lütfen kalkmama yardım edin. Su istiyorum, lütfen." "Help me, I'm hurting. Please help me up. I want water, please." As they helped me to my feet, I added: "Çok sağ ol."
That small exchange put the whole surgical team at ease. They weren't used to a foreign patient speaking even a little Turkish. I could introduce myself, "Hastayım...", and answer their questions with evet, tamam, hayır, or yok. To keep the mood light, I'd ask them, "Adın ne?" "What's your name?" Or I'd offer up a "çok güzel" or "çok sağ ol arkadaşlar" now and then when I was happy.
By the end of that first surgery, 5,707 follicles had been transplanted. The surgeon called it a success, though it didn't cover my entire head, so after further consultation, I returned to Bursa in 2025 for a second procedure, adding another 2,400 follicles.
Bursa, 2025 and the Bazaar
The second trip was different except in purpose. Aside from the airport, we spent no time in Istanbul at all, just Bursa, where the Ottoman Empire got its start. It's an easy city to move through, whether by subway, tram, or taxi.
One thing I'd missed on the first trip to Istanbul was the Grand Bazaar; we'd arrived during Ramadan, and the Grand Bazaar was closed. This time, we visited Koza Han Bazaar in Bursa, the historic end point of the Silk Road, where silk garments and carpets are still woven today. No trip to Türkiye is complete without haggling in a bazaar, and Seda had made sure I could do it politely: "Biraz indirim yapar mısınız... lütfen?" "Could you give me a little discount, please?" It worked like music on the merchants. When I was feeling bold, I'd add: "Bir fiyatına iki tane alabilir miyim?" "Can I get two for the price of one?"
This trip, more than the first, let us live like locals: cafés, movies, museums, long conversations with taxi drivers. As a family, we had a wonderful time.
What Remains
My life, and my family's, will never be quite the same. What the surgeons in Türkiye did for me feels like nothing short of a miracle, and just as lasting are the memories we built together in Bursa and Istanbul, memories I'll carry for the rest of my life, as will my wife and children.
When I look in the mirror now, I don't just see hair. I see the whole journey and a chapter in my life. A chapter that leaves me asking: "Will I return to Türkiye?"
If you're considering dental work, plastic surgery, or any medical travel to Türkiye: do your homework, learn the language, and keep an open mind. It might just change your life the way it changed mine.
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