Almost Letting Myself Go

My stylist took me aside today, and told me that I was letting myself go. He (Jim) confessed that there have been several recent occasions where people have been looking quizzically at my hair. ‘Do tell!’ I said encouragingly, proving that I was open to criticism.

Over the last six months I have made it clear to my friends that I am relying on them for hair alerts. If the wig were to slip, blow off, or display telltale elastic, I would really like to know. So far nobody has said anything, so I’ve stopped asking. In my mind,  I have perfected the art of wig wearing and am confident in my smart brown bob. So, even though I was slightly taken aback by Jim’s observation, I had to remind myself that I had demanded this feedback.

‘Maybe you’re getting to used to it,’ he said kindly, ‘ 'cus you used to make sure it was on straight.' I smiled my fake smile, and forced myself to laugh. When I first wore a wig, I would always make sure that it was symmetrical, and I would spend time in front of the mirror, readying myself for the public scrutiny. At home, I’d delicately remove my hat, ready for private scrutiny. Now, I often remove my hat and hair together. Rather than place the wig carefully on its' foam head, I’ll toss it on any old flat surface. When go out, I slap it on like a baseball cap.

Valerie Bertinelli

‘Sometimes,’ said Jim, ‘You let it slip down over your forehead.’ I feigned amusement, even though I was not amused. In fact, I pictured Valerie Bertinelli from her years on ‘One Day at a Time’ with her  low hairline and strangely small forehead. This was not good news, but I forced a hearty chuckle.

Buoyed by my good nature, Jim felt free to carry on. ‘You should also give it a wash.’ Jesus! What else could go wrong? I let my mind go back to the last time I’d given it a good bath, but I couldn’t remember the date. But even though it’s real hair, it’s not exactly attached to my scalp, so it stays pretty clean. Doesn’t it?

‘Anything else (fucker)?’ I said to my soon to be ex-stylist.  He’d already said that it was a crooked old mop in need of a good brushing. Short of a bad haircut, there wasn’t much he could add. Beside, I keep it covered with a hat, so how bad can it be?

‘Since you asked,’ he said tentatively, ‘And please don’t take this the wrong way, cus you’re still cute. But you should probably stop wearing the knit hats. They’re starting to look kind of weird.’

‘No, you’re starting to look kind of weird,’ I snapped.

How much criticism can one gal take?  But then I looked in the mirror, and realized that he was right. Kind, even. Because the head staring back at me was starting to resemble a dirty Zeller's mannequin from 1973.   So I tossed my rats nest into the sink,  gave it a good cleaning and a blow dry. When I re-emerged with my silky bob, Jim nodded his approval. His position was intact. There was a moment where I'd thought about letting him go, but I couldn't let that happen to both of us.