Test Drive
I took the hair prosthesis out for a test drive yesterday. I wandered into the bathroom yesterday morning and thought, oh my, things are getting very patchy. I had to go get a prescription filled for my mom and pick up one or two groceries, and I thought, well, this is a great time.
Back down the hall to the office where I keep the wig. When it's in the bathroom on the ledge by the tub, if I catch a glimpse of it on it's styrofoam blockhead, it always makes me double take thinking that someone else is in the bathroom. So I keep it in the office on a stack of literary magazines that I have to take back to my office at the university next fall.
The wig looks weird to me. I part my hair on the left, so the wig is parted on the left. But of course, when I look in a mirror, I always see a mirror image of myself. So the wig looks to me as if it is parted on the wrong side. When I first tried it on, it sort of sat on top of my rather dense mass of hair. Now I pulled it on and low and behold I didn't even need to fuss. It looked rather touseled, but anyone who knows me will know that touseled is my normal state. I fiddled with it with my fingers for a moment and sailed out to the car.
The wig is roughly the same color as my hair, without gray or highlights. I could get with gray, or with highlights but not with both. So I decided not to worry about it. The wig fit pretty snug but the net cap would ever so slightly bunch, like your socks do. I kept thinking it was not right, but I'd look in the mirror and it was fine.
I told a couple of the people at the assisted living where my mom lives, because I always take her to lunch on Mondays and Fridays (Bob Evans, where the waitresses all know her and know she doesn't really understand what is going on.) So I sailed in and said, 'Edith, I'm trying out my fake hair.'
Edith, the receptionist, did that thing where you stop looking at a person and look at some aspect of them, her eyes shifting from my face to my hair. Then she said, "Cute! And it looks like the same color as your hair!"
Basically, no one noticed unless I told them. And most importantly, my mother obviously noticed nothing different.
By the time I got home, though, I was tired of thinking about it, and unable to avoid my tendancy to tug and mess with it. It was something of a relief to get it off.
Back down the hall to the office where I keep the wig. When it's in the bathroom on the ledge by the tub, if I catch a glimpse of it on it's styrofoam blockhead, it always makes me double take thinking that someone else is in the bathroom. So I keep it in the office on a stack of literary magazines that I have to take back to my office at the university next fall.
The wig looks weird to me. I part my hair on the left, so the wig is parted on the left. But of course, when I look in a mirror, I always see a mirror image of myself. So the wig looks to me as if it is parted on the wrong side. When I first tried it on, it sort of sat on top of my rather dense mass of hair. Now I pulled it on and low and behold I didn't even need to fuss. It looked rather touseled, but anyone who knows me will know that touseled is my normal state. I fiddled with it with my fingers for a moment and sailed out to the car.
The wig is roughly the same color as my hair, without gray or highlights. I could get with gray, or with highlights but not with both. So I decided not to worry about it. The wig fit pretty snug but the net cap would ever so slightly bunch, like your socks do. I kept thinking it was not right, but I'd look in the mirror and it was fine.
I told a couple of the people at the assisted living where my mom lives, because I always take her to lunch on Mondays and Fridays (Bob Evans, where the waitresses all know her and know she doesn't really understand what is going on.) So I sailed in and said, 'Edith, I'm trying out my fake hair.'
Edith, the receptionist, did that thing where you stop looking at a person and look at some aspect of them, her eyes shifting from my face to my hair. Then she said, "Cute! And it looks like the same color as your hair!"
Basically, no one noticed unless I told them. And most importantly, my mother obviously noticed nothing different.
By the time I got home, though, I was tired of thinking about it, and unable to avoid my tendancy to tug and mess with it. It was something of a relief to get it off.
posted by Maureen McHugh at 9:05 AM
4 Comments:
The wig sounds great.
When I was in high school, my friend Jamie was diagnosed with leukemia. We picked out her wig together. She had this great kinky-curly reddish gold hair (which she had always hated, of course) and nothing really matched it or its odd shape. We picked the best, but it made her look exactly like Lucille Ball with an afro. It became a great joke between us -- "Loocee!"
Maureen, I'm glad you found something comfortable, but some "arteest" you turned out to be!
If I had to wear a wig, I'd be platinum blonde for a while, or maybe I'd try out punk pink. Maybe I'd spend a small fortune and buy a few of them to alternate. And I'm supposed to be the stodgy one!
~Stephanie Dray
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