Totally Wigged Out
Not long ago my best friend, Melissa, and I went shopping for something rather special. If you’re thinking Prada or Versace you’d be wrong. We bought hair. A huge bag of it!
Our hair affair began after Melissa arrived at our weekly lunch meeting wearing a wiglet, a.k.a. hair extensions. Overnight her curly bob had transformed into a luxurious streamlined ponytail. I was overcome with hair envy. My best friend had clip-on hair and I wanted some too!
I could only imagine the exciting life I would lead with clip-on hair. I might look thirty again! Okay, I wasn’t delusional; maybe forty-something. Alright, late forty-something.
With hair like that anything could happen. Sting might leave Trudie Styler for me. George Clooney might dump Amal and whisk me off to his Lake Como estate. Celebrity fantasies aside, I was ready for a life-altering change; the kind I could buy at a mid-mall kiosk for $35.
The next afternoon Melissa and I found ourselves at the mall, in front of the Lux Hair booth, eager to make a purchase. Melissa was sporting her latest hairpiece; a lustrous halo of ringlets. She’d now accumulated five wiglets and was bordering on a serious hair addiction.
The booth looked like a petting zoo. Hair in varying lengths and colors dangled from the display like animal pelts. Some were quite beautiful, while others were reminiscent of road kill. Keep in mind these were not expensive Kardashianesque hair extensions. This was mall hair.
The young girl working the Lux Hair kiosk approached us with an eager smile. She wore several hair extensions piled atop her head, like a life-size Marge Simpson. Spotting us as easy marks, she launched into her sales pitch. Her Marge hairdo bobbed as she pointed out the newest and priciest pieces.
I eyeballed the multitude of hair extensions, searching for one that would match my color. Sensing my hesitation, Marge Simpson thrust a black and white wiglet on top of my head and handed me a mirror. The image reflected back a twisted version of Pepe Le Pew, or Cruella de Vil. The next two she pinned on my head screamed drag queen. I was growing discouraged and had to face facts; George Clooney would never fall for clip-on hair.
A crowd had gathered around the booth and I began to feel like a sideshow freak. Shoppers stood, mouths agape, watching as my humiliation grew.
“This is the last one,” Marge said, slapping another hairy pelt on my head. She thrust the mirror into my hands and I gasped in awe at the cluster of luxurious curls cascading down my back. It was a perfect match! To close the deal, she plunged four crystal barrettes into my wiglet. “For color and drama,” she explained with a snap of her gum.
Melissa and I stared at the mirror, amazed by this minor hair miracle. Marge totaled my purchases and handed me the bill. Wow! I knew the price would be enough to trigger a mild coronary event in my husband, but it was too late, I had to have that hair! I paid the bill and headed to the food court with Melissa, our ponytails swinging in unison.
It was easy to be brave alongside Melissa, my partner in hair crime. But I had yet to face the swift and inexorable judgement of my family. Once at home, my husband, a man with little use for fashion trends, giggled when he saw me. He pointed to my new ponytail and asked, “What in God’s name is that?” I crossed my arms and glared at him.
“It’s hair. And Melissa has five!” I said as if that explained everything.
Next, it was my oldest son’s turn. He walked into the kitchen and stopped short, his eyes glued to the top of my head. “U-uh, Mom?” He sputtered. “Did you know you look like a deranged Princess Leia.” I pointed out that Princess Leia had those cinnamon bun coils on her head, while mine was a single ponytail. My son rolled his eyes skyward and shrugged.
Didn’t they get it? I looked younger and hipper. I had magic hair. Hair I could never in a million years have grown myself.
I stormed off to the bathroom, our dog barking at my heels. She probably wanted to kill the animal attached to my head. Once in the bathroom I took a good hard look in the mirror. Without Marge Simpson whispering in my ear or the dog attacking my ankles, it was easier to make an honest appraisal.
Okay, so it was a little goofy, and maybe I wasn’t fooling anyone with my magic wiglet. But at my age I should be allowed a goofy moment or two. Right? I suppose Amal Clooney and Trudie Styler can breathe easy, for now. Neither of their husbands are likely to fall for a suburban mother of three with clip-on hair. I did get a wink from Jorge the Shell station attendant last week. Not exactly living the dream, but I’ll take it.
