I decided not to discuss my fears about losing my hair with anyone
else. They would only get a backlashing of “you don’t understand”. There was no
soothing comment anyone could make. A Hallmark card with a funny poem about cue
balls or chrome domes would have been cut to ribbons. A gift of a hat would
have been the tinder to a little bonfire. My mother called. I told her about my
appointments, about the kids, about everything except my hair. It was becoming
the symbol of my downfall.
The ministry of health wig
subsidy was $408.88. After looking at wigs on-line I saw that this amount
wasn’t actually enough to purchase a whole wig. The cheapest ones were about
$450. I couldn’t even look at the Raquel Welch collection or anything made from
human hair. I thought about going to the local two dollar store and buying a
long black witch’s wig. Abby said she had a pink wig she bought for six dollars
and could bring home to me. It sounded like a fun idea at the time. But two
weeks before my big dose of chemo the whole wig thing had become more serious
and more urgent. A pink wig would hide the bald head but it would not aide my
desire to look normal. I decided a good-looking wig was something I would have
to splurge on. I planned a trip to a proper wig salon.
I hadn’t had a hair cut in
about a year. My hair was shoulder length, light brown, blonde or reddish,
depending on which hair colour was on sale that month. But to get me prepared
for having no hair at all, I got it cut short. It was a mental stepping stone
towards full disclosure.
The drive to the wig shop in
Pukekohe was long, about 50 minutes. When I arrived I was told firmly that I should
have had an appointment. This was a bad start. I told the woman how long it
took to drive to their store and that there was no mention on their website
that I had to have an appointment. She either agreed it would be a long drive
for nothing, or felt pity when I gave her the slip of paper entitling me to a
medical wig subsidy, because suddenly she got nice. She even made me a cup of
tea with two biscuits and said I would be next. I sat down by a coffee table
near a rack of wigs and a large mirror. A curtained area next to me was closed
off. I could hear chatting behind the curtain and assumed there was a customer
trying on hair. I sat contentedly sipping my tea and flipping through a
magazine of wigs. I laid the magazine open on the table while I sent a cheerful
text to Charlotte to tell her what I was up to.
The sales woman ran like a shot over to me and slammed shut the open
magazine.
“You can’t photograph the
wigs.”
“Huh?”
I realised that I was
holding my phone in a position that looked like I could be taking a photograph.
“I’m texting.”
But she was gone as quickly
as she had arrived. I couldn’t understand why anyone would photograph a wig
catalogue. Did she think I was going to try to make my own at home out of wire
and yarn? This episode in my life was always going to be strange and surreal,
so the split personality of the shopkeeper was perfectly suited to what I was
going through. I left the magazine shut on the table.
When the middle aged couple
emerged from behind the curtain it was my turn. They looked happy and smiled as
they walked past. It was encouraging. Also, thankfully I was going to be helped
by someone other than the slightly demented shopkeeper. I had already decided I
wanted to look as much like me as possible. My own hair was very curly and
there were only a few curly-haired wigs so I was extremely limited in my
choice. The wig assistant praised me for coming to the shop early before I lost
my hair. As she teased the synthetic mop on my head into a fashionable
coiffure, she told a story which concluded:
“A man brought his wife in
the same day she had a heavy dose of chemo and she wasn’t in any fit state
mentally to choose a wig.”
I agreed that it was good I
was early. But the truth was I found it hard to take buying a wig seriously
when I still had hair. It was more like a child’s game of dress-up. It wasn’t
real. Still I enthusiastically engaged myself in the process. I modelled the
hair sitting, standing and posing until I was satisfied I had a wig that was a
good fit and colour. Even with the government subsidy I was $56 out of pocket,
although I thought it looked pretty natural. It was probably better than a $6
pink wig or the witch’s hair. It was handed to me in a discreet yellow box. I
put it on the passenger seat of my car and stole looks at it on the long drive
back.
When I got home Alex rang. I
had the wig in my hands and I told him about my purchase. I was feeling
confident and I could tell by his voice he was a little turned on at the idea
of a strange woman waiting for him at home, so when he asked if he could see me
in the wig, I said of course. But by the time he arrived at 8.30pm I had a
complete change of heart. I wasn’t friends with the wig anymore. I had pushed
it into its box like I was pushing a dead rat out the door with a pencil. It
was ugly and foreign and I was no longer interested in parading around in it
for him.
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