We were invited to the Smith’s for dinner. Because they knew
about my disease I thought wearing the wig would just be phony and ridiculous.
I dragged Alex and Charlotte to the Warehouse to try on scarves. Since I was in
my favorite woolly hat with a bald head underneath, I needed models. I picked
out a black scarf with a leopard design in orange and purple. It sounds awful
but it looked great on Charlotte and not so good on my husband. I thought it
would look somewhere in between on me so I bought it. At home I had second
thoughts about the scarf and went back to the wig. I tried it on for Charlotte
who hadn’t seen me in it yet.
“It looks good.”
That was enough. I trusted her opinion and opted for the wig.
When Mrs Smith opened the door she put her hands to her cheeks in happy
surprise.
“Your hair looks
fantastic”.
I wanted to, but I couldn’t claim the hair that came from
the Gabor collection as my own.
“It isn’t my
hair.”
“It’s a wig?”
(whispering)
“Yes.”
Except for the need to whisper, test number three was ticked
off the list. One of my best friends was fooled. I know there are people who
think I am ridiculous. They wouldn’t hide who they had become. They would have
walked through town with a boldly shining bald pate not caring who stared or
made comments. They would sit at dinner with friends talking about chemotherapy
and constipation. But for me it was a huge step just to go outside my door as
the cancer patient I didn’t want to be.
When my good
friend Sarah sent me an email invite to a “fashion night” I imagined an
oversized hairdresser with blonde tips running her fingers through my plastic
headdress and telling me I needed conditioner before the whole thing fell off
at her pudgy feet. I didn’t know whether to tell Sarah the truth or a big fat
lie. I considered sending a text pretending I had gone back to America to
babysit a very slowly recovering aunt. (I didn’t want to kill my aunt off, even
fictitiously). But I couldn’t stay in America at my aunt’s bedside for six
months. So I sucked it up and told her a half truth. I admitted to the chemo
which made my hair fall out, but I didn’t admit to having cancer. Her reaction
was kind. She didn’t ask any difficult questions. She just said she was there
for me. I went to bed thinking maybe I could get through this.
But the wig had
other ideas. Thinking I had conquered it, I determinedly wore it. Alex took me
and the hairpiece to the movies one afternoon and then to the pub. After a
couple of beers I was having a great time. Alex, the bartender and the other
patrons seemed to think I was the friendliest person they had met in a long
time. When I went to the toilet I found out why. In the mirror I could see that
my wig had shifted backwards. I had a permanent happy look, like a clown
wearing one of those little green hair mops. My forehead was twice as high as
normal and glowing. I could see myself looking back at me in the shiny skin. I
shifted the wig forward and stepped back out into the bar. After another beer I
was feeling happy again, although I now looked more solemn than friendly.
It was
disconcerting but easily forgotten. Unfortunately it was only the beginning. A
major wig meltdown was to come.
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