I cannot keep my new hair on. No matter how gently I tweak my wig first one way, then another, then another, then another. I have been told that once I have no hair, apparently, the situation will be “better”: the wig should (somehow) attach itself to my head. Though I am not quite convinced of this anymore. And having to become completely bald first seems a very high price indeed for a secure wig.
My over-reaction makes almost no sense even to me. Yet I am experiencing that same feeling of utter, tearful frustration I used to get at primary school when my knee socks slid infuriatingly halfway down my legs. Now I suddenly want to howl with boredom and, worse still, in fury at my own inadequacy. Why can I not do this? It could be that I just haven’t come up with a special, precise enough technique? The sliding sock scenarios were resolved by my decision to roll them up into what I cheerfully called “ankle doughnuts”. Unfortunately, I cannot roll up my wig: I do not want a doughnut on my head.
The reality is that the wig is merely balancing there. I can feel its threat to gradually, yet dramatically, pop off my scalp, and then presumably fall into my lap like an awful pet. Walking around my bedroom with it perched precariously, at a slight tilt, has absolutely not given me the slightest touch of French charm. Instead it feels like a dreadful secret, experimenting in this way: I have duly closed the curtains and shut the door. I do not want to be found out, whilst I am busy readjusting my identity, thank you very much.
I asked my sweet daughter if she liked my wig? What was her honest opinion? I ‘wanted’ to know if this new wig reminded her perhaps of anyone? And if so, who? Who was I? With kindly interest, my daughter looked me up and down. It was an audition, of sorts. To help her inspiration move in the right direction, I then did a pirouette in slow (and careful) motion – in the manner of a person with remarkable co-ordination skills and extremely nice hair. This was an opportunity to reinvent myself after all.
Her assessment was this: I have the look of a “Janet” (even though - until now - none of us knew any Janets) and that I “might work as a receptionist” and that my hair is “from 2009”. (The significance of 2009 is that this was the year when ‘everyone’ at school decided to snip an annoying fringe into their lovely long hair.) Well, I was disconcerted by this information. I gave Janet a firm stare in the mirror: Janet stared right back.
But then my daughter explained, in her higher and chirpier than usual voice: “No, no, no! This is good news. Very good news, in fact. Because 2009 happens to be my favourite year, ever. And Janets have lots of friends: they have such great hair. And I love receptionists.” Well, my daughter has clearly been paying some attention in her English lessons then. At a moment’s notice she was ready to create for me a different name, personality, job, social life: a new existence entirely.
How was I supposed to see this positively then? It was perhaps time to ask my daughter for advice. For example, what would Janet do if her hair was about to slide off or even pop off? Well? How does Janet deal with stressful wig situations? Judging from my daughter’s reaction, as she smiled and left the room, it seems Janet doesn’t even bother to answer questions of this variety – because they simply never happen to her. Oh, thank goodness for that then. That’s a huge relief. I think I might start to like Janet after all.
