I Embarrassed My Family By Wearing a Wig

Despite the chiding, I’m still looking for Mrs. Right (Wig)

I never had nice hair.

My mom’s hair is thick and black. My dad’s hair is blonde and, as he’s aged, it is thinning. My brother, once a toe-head, now sports a near brown buzzcut and a nice pepper gray beard. My hair is fine and mousy brown. It’s never had the sun-reflecting sheen of a blonde or the mysterious allure of a rare redhead. It lacks the depth and bluish richness of black hair.

It is boring.

I’ve had as much fun with my God-given head of hair for as long as possible. From a spiral perm in the 90s to chunky bangs and a balayage of blonde highlights post-babies, my hairstyle is the jewel in my fashion crown. I am fearless in my choices because I have nothing to lose.

Too much bleach causing breakage? Time for a pixie! Long bob looking like all the other moms? Shave one side to create one-of-a-kind asymmetry.

Unlike other women, my natural hair has never been nice enough to leave untouched. Some women only trim their long locks. Others fear the damage of hair dye. I embrace all of the above.

Lately, my hair has been letting me down.

During a recent haircut and color, I confessed to my hairstylist that I was feeling uninspired by my ‘do.’ She picked at my hair, looking intently at the roots and sliding her fingers to the tips of strand after strand.

“Melis. I can see why. You have lost a lot of hair.”

My stylist and I are in a long-term relationship and she is the artist behind my finest haircuts. She saw my hair at its thickest — during pregnancy, and at its thinnest — after pregnancy.

If I lost hair, she would know it.

That day, she cut, colored, and styled as usual and I left feeling confident for a few days. Every time I looked in the mirror I stared at my scalp through my fine hair. I stared at the baby-fine hairs wisping around my forehead and ears. I massaged thickening shampoo into my hair in the shower, noticing the slimness of my ponytail.

My hair matters to me.

I am not ready to accept my thinning hair as part of the aging process. No medical providers take me seriously when I mention my concerns. I’m taking biotin and collagen pills.

I’m considering an elimination diet and I’m researching hair-healthy vitamins and minerals. My social media friends suggest essential oils and supplements. I am willing to do what it takes to get back to my mediocre mousy-haired self.

Until then, I bought a wig.

The process is a commitment. I get 3–4 texts a day announcing Facebook live feeds about wigs. If I watch them, I may just catch a special discount code. I look at wig websites and joined gently used wig Facebook groups.

I watch YouTube videos on lace cutting and wig washing.

I learned new terms like ‘monofilament’ and know the benefits of human versus synthetic.

Despite spending hundreds of dollars a year on my haircuts and hair care, I can’t bring myself to buy a luxury wig — the most realistic-looking, highest quality wigs on the market.

After putting a dozen or more wigs in my cart only to remove them, I broke down and hit “buy” on a cute dark brown, long bob with chunky bangs. I waited anxiously for its arrival, rushing home to rip open the box to get the wig in my hands — and on my head.

I look like Velma from Scooby-Doo.

You get what you pay for, right? The wig wasn’t quite right. The top was insanely thick and the bangs uneven. I snapped a few selfies before sheepishly hiding the hair in my underwear drawer.

I can’t stand wasting money so I brought her (the wig world’s preferred pronoun) to my stylist. She and her colleague spent a half-hour hacking and shaping the wig. They did the very best they could, reminding me that a higher quality wig will look more natural and will be easier to cut and style to fit my petite head.

I left wearing the wig yet it was lightly raining so I kept my hood up revealing only the chunky bangs and sidelocks. I felt comfortable because the majority of the wig was hidden.

The clerk at the checkout at the grocery store didn’t give me a second glance — a good sign. However, she didn’t give me a first glance either, casting her eyes down as she moved my eggs and tomatoes from the conveyor belt to the bagging area. I felt the outing was a success.

Once again, I took off the wig and stashed it in a drawer.

I tried to wear her out to dinner last night.

I believe in second chances. I unwrapped the wig from her protective netting and placed her on my head. After twenty or so minutes of braiding and primping, I called my daughter into the room.

“Mom. No.”

She is twelve and limited in her words of affirmation.

Desperate to make this relationship between me and the wig work, I asked my husband. “It looks weird. It doesn’t look like you. It looks like a wig.”

I enjoyed dinner that night, wigless.

My friend, whom I’ve not seen since the start of the pandemic immediately commented on how lovely my hair looked, noting its growth from a pixie to past my shoulders. I said I wanted to wear a wig but my family said it was embarrassing. My husband shrugged in acknowledgment and we moved on to ordering appetizers.

This morning I woke up to a text about a Facebook live happening in 10 minutes and the promise of super great deals.

I didn’t click the link. Instead, I placed my hair into a teeny ponytail and stuck a baseball cap on before grabbing a coffee.

Perhaps someday I will decide the money is worth it and I’ll buy the perfect luxury wig that even my family will be proud of seeing me wear— or more importantly, I’ll be proud of seeing me wear.

Copyright Melissa Marietta

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