Perfect Hair

Yesterday a woman came into the boutique where I work. Her hair was perfect. Deeply maroon, one step beyond auburn, gleaming like polished mahogany. Bangs that queued up confidently over matching brows, no stubborn cowlicks defying the laws of gravity. The back curved smoothly to the nape of her neck; the sides slid into graceful points grazing her shoulders. Darling china doll meets badass Uma Thurman. 

 

I was about to complement her on her cute hair but I caught myself, because suddenly I realized it was a wig. No wig-wearing stranger wants attention that way, like a spotlight aimed at her adorably sassy, but obviously store-bought maroon bob. Save the wig compliments until you are intimate enough with that person to understand why she wears it. Which begs the question: why was she wearing this impossibly perfect fake hair?

 

Five plausible reasons why a slightly younger-than-middle-aged woman would choose to wear a wig:

 

Reason #1: She is in witness protection. Maybe she was an unwitting bystander to a major drug deal gone wrong, and bravely took the stand to put the bad guys away for life. But the bad guys have bad friends, who are now on the lookout for a forty-something petite woman with a dishwater blond ponytail and wispy bangs. Let's not give her away by drawing attention to the disguise.

 

Reason #2: She is afflicted with alopecia areata, the sadly untreatable condition which makes your hair fall out in patches. My eyes flicked to the celebrity gossip magazine I kept behind the register. On the cover, a stunning actress smiled broadly, her gleaming bald scalp too beautiful to hide under a wig. Without the distraction of hair, her cheekbones angled like anvils, her sparkling eyes defiant. She looked so vulnerable, a gladiator without armor daring the lions to attack. I stopped my hands from running through my own messy locks. No need to remind her of what she has lost.

 

Reason #3: She has just robbed a gas station, of course wearing a different wig at the scene of the crime, probably equally stylish but different, so the security video would never lead to a perfect auburn bob. The cash she just handed me to purchase her cozy new pjs is like a fresh-from-the-oven baked potato in its hotness; I should stash the bills on the bottom of the cash drawer so that when the FBI investigates I can contribute evidence. I estimate her height and weight and look for identifying scars or birthmarks (there are none.) Again, let's not point out the wig, as no doubt she is packing heat in that oversized satchel. Play it cool and call the cops later.

 

Reason #4: She is the mother of small children who have driven her over the edge. Dear God the squabbling! It's enough to make anyone hire a sitter for the afternoon and head downtown for some escapist retail therapy. Why the wig? Maybe sporting a maroon bob reminds her that she could lead another kind of life. The world doesn't always need to see a person’s reality, which is never perfect and mostly unwashed and sometimes has peanut butter stuck in it. She needs that illusion at this moment; let's allow it.

 

Reason #5: She has just finished her third round of chemo. She survived her first two sessions in the chemical cocktail lounge, each time an exercise in deep, calming breathing. She'd keep her eyes closed, not for restfulness but because there is no place safe to rest them. Not on the semi-living neighbor in the next chair, not on her own IV bag which seems to pulsate and glow with toxic evilness, not on the generic hotel-style sconces which cast a certain level of soft lighting that will forever make her panic. She prays that the chemo has killed off more than hair follicles. Let's join her in that prayer.

 

I add extra tissue to her bag and tie ribbon to the handles.

"Thanks so much for coming in. Enjoy the rest of your day." I say, handing it across the counter. Her hand trembled as she took the bag, blue veins starkly outlined on her pale skin, but her steady gaze cut to the cash drawer, and lingered. I cleared my throat.

 

“I love your hair. You look really beautiful today.”

 

We locked eyes for a moment, that perfectly bewigged woman and me. Then she reached over the cash drawer to snatch my celebrity magazine. She shot me a wicked grin as she backed out the shop door and dashed down the street.

 

Yep, definitely reason number three. A gunslinging bandit. I hope she gets away with it.