Oh, Her
Cathy Morrill-Miller
Word Count 1,196
You need an appointment to look at wigs at this shop. My friend Nancy recommended it, and she said to spend the money and get a real hair wig as they are the only ones that look real and natural. She wears hers every day as she is still teaching, and she says it is worth the more than $1,000 price tag. I really don’t want to go, it is so hard to look in the mirror each morning, paint on some eyebrows, buff on some powder, wanting to look like myself, and I don’t. I used to have all that hair that people always commented on, and it was the first thing Jerry noticed about me.
Before my diagnosis, I never wore anything on my head. Ever. No hats, scarves, even headbands. They all felt tight as soon as I put them on. My hair was so thick and unmanageable when it was humid, so I always bought scarves, headbands, clips to smooth it, contain it, and look neat. I would put them on and soon pull them off. I still find these hair items in my car, old briefcases, everywhere I pulled them out and dropped them.
Gail wants to come to town for the appointment. I know she wants to help, and she checks on me often, so sympathetic and worried. It has often been me helping her; now, she wants to do something. She has problems of her own, but she wants to come for the weekend and make it fun, she says. My other sister Valerie will be there too, a new role for her, caring for others. The first time she came to stay with me for the day because I could not be alone, she said, “ I don’t have to touch you, or anything do I?” But she came two times a week, still checks in with me every week, and visits often.
We are the only three in the shop, with Kathryn, the manager, who is very professional and solicitous, almost like a nurse, and I wonder if that is because of how I look. The shop is small, with fancy chairs, gold shelving, and flattering lighting. It also has three private styling rooms, just like a salon. Kathryn tells us they also specialize in extensions and special occasion wigs. She gives us information on the three types of wigs: real, good synthetic, and the other I can’t remember (maybe crappy synthetic?) and tells us to choose three styles to start and not to worry about color, that we will match that later. Valerie and I choose three styles, one longer and more curly like my old hair, one mid-length with loose waves, and one long and straight.
Gail is careening around looking for herself, touching everything; she follows no directions. Val, Kathryn, and I take the three styles into a private salon room, and Gail buzzes in with two more she has found. The second wig I try on, with the loose waves, seems to be the right style, but it is platinum blonde with darker roots. Kathryn goes to see if they have it in brown, while Gail lobbies for me to get the blonde one. She says the wig is so fun, that she will do my makeup, that all I need is a complete makeover and more lipstick, and I will look so good, to think of Jerry, that he will love it. Val tells her to calm down, but she is excited. Finally, I tell her this is not fun for me- I am not going to Studio 54 for the night, just trying to look more like myself.
That Gail wants to glam me up does not surprise me, Gail has always been so pretty, and no matter how she is feeling, she always puts on makeup and lipstick, even to walk her dog. When I was so ill I couldn’t get water down, she was trying to put a little lipgloss on me, and she would wash, dry, and style my hair for me when I was past caring. She desperately wants to make this a “fun event.” Gail goes out to look for more fun styles, and Val and I decide on a color closer to my own, although it seems darker than my real hair. I depend on Val to choose it because although it looks okay, any dream that I would look like myself vanishes.
Then Kathryn gives us a lesson on care and styling. Kathryn refers to the wig as “she” or “her.” She says things like, “give her a shake,” and “don’t use high heat on her.” I wonder if she says this to ladies who come in for a sexy new look, or is this just for sick people they are trying to prop up. There is a long session about shampooing, and the best way to know if she needs a shampoo is, “ to give her a smell.” Ick.
Luckily our choice is not a real hair wig, but a Racquel Welch wig, and still $375. The stylist comes in and fixes one of her curls, and she advises me to keep shaking my head to get “her” loose. My sisters say she looks great, and Valerie takes a picture to send to my mom and to Jerry.
The restaurant next door is empty, so we go in for lunch. I am wearing her, and I have to keep snapping my head back like I am in junior high to get her out of my eyes. Then when I am trying to eat, she keeps falling toward my mouth. Gross. I wear her home to show Jerry, who just looks and says, “Well, of course, you look good, but it will take some time to get used to it; doesn’t look like you.” I tell him to call the wig “her” like an inside joke, but it is not funny. She is squeezing my head. My puppy Hazel keeps barking at me and won’t let me pet her, and then she tries to climb me to smell her. I guess Hazel will let me know when “ she” needs to be shampooed.
I wear her to lunch with my friends for their retirement celebration. We sit outside. They all say she looks so natural and pretty, but she just doesn’t feel right. In my mind, I look like Sonny Bono- just wrong- or like I am wearing a paper crown or costume. I put her in her box when I get home. I wear her one more time for Jerry’s birthday like it is a gift for him that I look more normal when we go out. Here is the problem; it makes me sad each time. I am either pale or beet red, depending on how many days from the last chemo. I have lost all my hair, most of my eyebrows, and my eyelashes. I am swollen, tired, and sick-looking. I simply don’t look anything like myself, and putting her on doesn’t change anything. So she sits in her box, not sure when or if she will get out again.
Cathy is a retired teacher who lives in a suburb of Kansas City, Missouri. She is enjoying exploring writing as part of Abigail Thomas's Memoir Writing Workshop for those who are or have had cancer.
