Wig

Noun:

A covering for the head made of real or artificial hair, typically worn by judges and barristers in law courts or by people trying to conceal their baldness. 

Since the dawn of time, it has almost been law to mock anyone wearing a wig.  Especially as they used to be so obvious.

When it was apparent that I was going to lose my hair, I was very sceptical about wearing a wig. However, I went to a recommended wig shop just before my first chemo, just in case.

I found it to be a really fun and uplifting experience!

Initially, I said to the wig specialist that if I have to wear a wig, I want it to be totally different from my real hair (which is shoulder length, mousy brown and naturally very curly – although I iron the life out of it with straighteners).  I said, “I want to go blonde!”.  He looked at me quizzingly and said “Really?”.  Bless him.  He humoured me for about an hour.  I must have tried on every shade of blonde known to man, but I just looked like a badly made-up man in drag in all of them.

Eventually, he said, “Shall we try one that is close to your own colour and style?”. 

Reluctantly, I had to concede that Mousy Brown is my shade.

I ended up buying 3 over the next few months.  One that was indeed pretty much my own shade and style.  Another which was a “Cleopatra” dark brown long bob, with a fringe, and my absolute favourite, which was “plum berry jam” coloured (purple and pink), styled in a 1960’s graduated short bob.  I bloody loved that wig!

And, wigs are so much better than they used to be.  Once, when I was at the hairdressers, getting my daughter’s hair cut, the hairdresser said “ooh your mum has lovely hair!” (plum berry jam wig worn with pride).  And I figured, if a hairdresser couldn’t tell, then no one could.

I had a couple of amusing incidents with my wigs.  Once when I was at our local butchers, I parked up outside and as I poked my head out of the car door, the wind took old wiggy, and it headed off around the car park like a stray long haired chihuahua.  People around looked on in horror at this bald woman chasing around after a tangled, hairy mess.  Especially when I caught it, plonked it on and carried on with my meat purchase.

I do admire people who go bald and proud.  I was never that brave.  My head is kind of flat on the back and when bald, I look not that dissimilar to an alien.  Also, whenever you see a bald woman, you instantly assume she has cancer.  I didn’t want Mavis at the Tesco check-out to know I had cancer.  I didn’t want her to look at me with the Dead Man Walking eyes.  I just wanted to be treated as “normal”.

If you are happy with a baldy head then go for it.  But I say, Embrace the Wig!