Samantha Jones channeled herself into me for a few glorious hours this weekend. When this happens, I feel like I can conquer the world, so I put on a smart sweater and rode the Sam Jones wave as far as I could take her.
First order of business was getting my bangs trimmed, which meant a trip to Richard at Continental Hair, in Yorkville . Though an area I avoid on normal day, it's bearable when I strut through as Sam. (Last time I was there I saw an Olsen twin. She is the exact size of a giant latte).
I’ve waited a month to get my bangs trimmed, because it’s taken me that long to understand my wig. Not that it’s uncomfortable. When I first visited, I asked Richard how I could prevent my head from itching. He looked like I’d slapped him across the face. “My wigs don’t itch,” he gasped, hugging ‘Julie’ tight to his chest. And in fact, they're quite comfortable. (Mine has a silk inset). However it takes time to feel confident with its' exact placement on the big bald head. The top should line up with the hairline, and a tab at either temple ensures the hair is on straight. Placement is absolutely crucial, as one is always just a step away from looking like a mannequin in a Greek dress shop.
So, I waited till I could adjust the wig without the help of a mirror before tackling the bangs - but tackle the bangs we did. Unapologetically I Ms Jones’d Richard into submission, demanding that he slowly trim each hair millimeter by millimeter, in a quest to make them perfect. Poor Richard. Though he gamely snipped away, I suspect that at he preferred the woman he met a few months earlier; the version of me who slumped in the chair and started sobbing.
After leaving a giant tip, I continued on my way, sashaying down Avenue Road to look for eyeglasses. Their use is purely cosmetic, as I want to distract from eyes that are potentially lashless. Entering the shop, I knew my time was limited. My steely confidence only lasts for so long, and then Samantha leaves me. So I grabbed he first salesperson (age 12) that I found, and told her exactly what I was looking for. Things went well for about four minutes. I found a pair that I liked, and asked her opinion. “Let’s see how they fit,” she squeaked. And then, without hesitation, she lifted her tiny hand to see how the arm fit, over my ear. Jesus! “Watch the hair,” I warned, slightly impatient. Her little face clouded over. “I’m wearing a wig,” I explained. She looked as though she was about to cry. But not me. Feeling wildly unsympathetic, my inside voice said, “ Oh, buckle the f*ck up kid. It’s just hair.”
That was moment I’d realized that I’d peaked. I’d ridden the Samantha Jones wave for one magnificent afternoon, but now it was time to go home. I’d crested on a giant rogue, and I could feel myself heading back to shore. Soon, I would cease to order salespeople around, followed by random acts of compassion. Samantha Jones took me uptown, but on the sandy shore another Miss Jones is ready to be channeled by me. Sprawled on a chair with a bottle of vodka, her name is Bridget, and she awaits.
So, with a last bit of determination, I flung the door open onto Bloor St, and whistled for a taxi.