Chapter 6 - The Wig Box
The dressing suite was off the north hallway, past the restrooms, where the music from the ballroom came through the wall as a low thrum. I closed the door behind me and locked it. My hands were shaking more than I wanted to admit, so I set the wig down first, careful, on the vanity. The note I kept folded in my palm.
It was cooler in there. The sconces were dimmer than the chandeliers outside. On the counter someone had left a tray with bottled water and folded towels, and a low upholstered bench against the mirror. I sat down because my knees told me to. In the glass, under that flat light, my scalp looked paler than it had at the table. I could see the thin blue line of a vein at my temple. I hadn't looked at myself like that in weeks without turning away.
The hair had started coming out in early spring. Not all at once. First on the pillow. Then in the shower drain, enough that I started cleaning it before anyone could see. I told myself it was stress, then age, then I stopped telling myself anything and made the appointment. The doctor used careful words and I used careful nods. On the drive home down the county road I pulled into a church parking lot and sat with the engine running. I realized I didn't want to watch it happen strand by strand.
I had asked the nurse to shave it. That was three weeks ago. She'd brought out the clippers without making a face about it, and she'd talked about her kid's school pick-up line the whole time like it was any other Tuesday. When she held up the hand mirror I laughed because I didn't know what else to do. It wasn't vanity that made my eyes sting. It was how exposed my head felt in the air, how cold the room was on skin that had always been covered.
The wig box was still in my overnight bag. White cardboard, tissue paper inside. I'd kept the styled silver-gray piece in it that morning, set just so. I pulled the bag toward me now with my foot and lifted the lid. The empty box smelled faintly of the powder I'd used to keep the cap from slipping. For a second I just looked at it.
I hadn't bought that wig to look younger. I bought it because I didn't want my son's wedding photos to become a conversation about me. I wanted to sit at the reception table and listen to the toasts and be Michael's mother in a royal blue dress, not a question people whispered about behind program cards. It was dignity, plain and simple. I wanted to decide when and if to tell anyone.
I unfolded the note on the vanity and smoothed it flat beside the wig.
Congratulations you finally have a hairstyle that suits your age. The heart underneath was small and neat, drawn with pressure on the curve.
I read it twice. The first time my throat tightened. The second time I heard it less as an insult and more as evidence of what she'd wanted. She'd wanted me to feel old and ridiculous. She'd wanted me to put the wig back on fast and pretend I hadn't seen it, to be grateful no one else had. That was the part that steadied me.
Outside, someone laughed, far off, and a tray clinked. I drank half a bottle of water and set it down slowly. I folded the tissue paper back into the empty box and closed the lid. I wasn't going to put the wig back in it yet. I ran my palm once over my scalp, light, the way the nurse had shown me to check for irritation. The skin was warm from the ballroom lights. It was mine.
May you like
I stood and checked the dress in the mirror, straightened the boat neckline, touched one earring to make sure it was still there. Then I picked up the note and slipped it into my clutch. I left the wig where it was for a moment, then I changed my mind and picked it up too. Not to wear it. To carry it. Let them see I wasn't hiding it in a box while I pretended otherwise.
I unlocked the door and kept my head bare. I wasn't going to cover it again tonight to make the room comfortable.
