My mother shows up at my door unannounced in the middle of the afternoon.
“I’m ready to put on my wig,” she declared, walking past me and taking off her coat. I asked her many times to warn me before she showed up, but she never did. Then again, I keep putting her in.
“A wig!” I answered, cautiously pleased and a little confused. She had been bald for months due to chemotherapy. What has changed? But I’m excited to close my laptop and hear this clear instruction to make her lunch, something I can actually do for her once.
As I pulled a bag of Trader Joe’s gnocchi from the freezer and tossed it into the pot, she yelled facts about wigs in the breakfast nook. “So there’s fake hair and real hair,” she says. “Fixed hair wigs last on average six months. Real hair is more expensive but can last over a year.”
“How much are you talking about?”
“I think it’s a few hundred versus a thousand.” She looked at me, and I turned, spatula in the air, trying to keep my face blank—trying to avoid the subject of “lasting,” and months and years. Since being diagnosed with cancer, she has undergone a full day of surgery, two hospitalizations, genetic sequencing, and six rounds of chemotherapy. At each milestone comes more bad news. The 5-year survival rate for leiomyosarcoma is 14%. I have it memorized. All the articles I’ve read say her life expectancy is 9-15 months. (She’ll be gone in less than a year, but we don’t know yet.) Every time I suggest people start withdrawing early, she says, “Somebody’s gotta be in that 14%.” So we eat lunch and plan on checking out the wig store tonight and then seeing a movie.
When you arrive at Wigland, you walk around for 10 minutes waiting for the next available staff member. We shyly walk through rows of disembodied display heads, exchanging amused glances, afraid to touch anything. The low ceilings and bad lighting, the dead-eyed stares of the wig mannequins, it all feels meaningful and I fight the urge to run away.
When it’s our turn to be helped, the owner, Brian, approaches us sideways with caution. “How much do you know about wigs?” he asks with gentle curiosity. “Absolutely nothing!” I answer all too enthusiastically. Brian doesn’t miss a beat. First, talking about synthetic wigs, he stresses that synthetic wigs are not exposed to heat. If you’re not careful when you put your hands in the oven, you’ll end up with frizzy bangs. I laughed nervously, worried that it would be inappropriate in this setting. The wig is very close to being a joke or gag, but importantly, it’s not at all.
Fortunately, my entertainment only seems to encourage Brian. He grins and reminds us to also be careful with the dishwasher, which means hot steam. I was surprised, and my fear turned to admiration. What people who wear wigs go through and people like me remain ignorant about. “Oh, yeah. You want to avoid the barbecue,” he added with a twinkle in his eye. I want to say that we feel a sense of friendship. Isn’t the world strange? Isn’t it humiliating to be human? Ha!
Finally my mom sat me down for the fitting and now Brian is really glowing. He puts on the wig cap with obvious care. “Are you okay? How is your scalp feeling after the treatment? I know it’s very sensitive.”
Mom brightens under his watchful gaze. “It looks like fishnet stockings!” she says of the wig cap, embracing its absurdity. “I’m sure you do,” he adjusts her. “One good thing about all this is that you have a great mind for wigs.” Mom replies, “Really?” It’s as flattering and incredible as it was when I was a kid.
Brian wants to know what she looked like before. Lately, I’ve been reluctant to look back at old photos where she looks so young and vibrant, but now I jump at the chance to scroll back through my phone. She is there. She has shoulder-length medium brown hair with reddish-blond highlights that frame her face. For as long as I can remember, she used a curling iron almost every day. I proudly hand over my phone to Brian, my beautiful mother! –And when he meets her, he shows no sadness or regret. He just squinted at her hair, then hurried away like a man on a mission.
He returns with a bunch of wigs and refers to them as “she” and “her.” It gives me joy every time. When he slides them out of the box, they seem alive in his hands – shoulder-length brunettes, grey-reddish browns, an array of different gradations of salt and pepper. To me they are like mothers. It looks like a long-lost body part. Maybe her hair has always been here in Wigland?
The first thing she introduces is a chestnut-colored bob with bangs. She’s not quite right, but she looks much more right than she did a second ago. She was briefly returned to me. They smile happily and take lots of photos. The next child is too gray, even grayer than her. She laughs in horror, saying she looks like her mother. She looks just like Gram, who passed away at the age of 95 just a few years ago. My mother will never see that age unless a miracle happens. She doesn’t want to be like her mother, but I want her to be. I wish she would turn gray, become soft, time would pass and we would no longer be in this moment. I want her to live to be old. I want a mother who has reached a stage in life where her hair is almost completely gray.
Brian has another one, but he’s afraid we won’t like it. “She’s kind of messed up,” he says. “I “It’s a bit of a mess,” my mother laughs. Her hair is shoulder-length with swooping bangs, and her hair is a classy blend of gray and dirty blonde, close to her mother’s. Pretty perfect, we agree. Probably that person.
At Brian’s urging, we go to the window to see her in natural light. The two of them smile and take a picture together. In fact, we’re grinning. I feel a great sense of relief. We look so normal. Maybe she’s right, maybe her doctor and I gave up on her prematurely and gave up too soon. Why can’t I live in a hopeful place like my mother? If you have a 14 percent chance of being alive in five years, does that make you feel important and worth the effort? Isn’t what you’re doing wrong the worst thing that could happen to you?
I’ll take more photos. My mother now never resists taking pictures with me, which I consider a bad sign. As we both know, there are only a few left. Brian sits her deep in the chair and explains all the tweaks he can make to the wig. Make it thinner in some places and shorter in the back. You don’t need a hairdresser, Brian says with a laugh. He can do it himself if we trust him.
“We trust you!” I blurted out without checking with my mother. Of course we trust him and I trust him too. I know Brian wants more for my mom than for me. He’ll make it even better with this wig we already love, which costs $220. He says he can bring her back to us in just a few days. I want to be like him, to see people at their most vulnerable and know that I can improve their lives by using my own very specific skills rather than interpersonal relationships.
Back in the car, I made a three-point turn and led them in the direction of the movie theater. By the time I shift from reverse to drive, I’m jubilant. “I didn’t think I’d actually be able to buy one today!” I said, looking at my mom, who was putting a woolen beanie on her bald head. “Me too!” she replies. We feel like two teenagers who just got their ears pierced, or something equally wholesome and extravagant. What else can we do, how else can we chase this feeling before it’s no longer available?
meghan o’connell Freelance writer and editor, and author of the 2018 memoir And now we’ve got it all: About motherhood before you’re ready. Her work can be found in New York Magazine, Romper, The New York Times, and her newsletter. What the living do.
PS: Dead Dad Club and 9 Life Lessons I Learned After Cancer Diagnosis.
(Top photo provided by Jerusha/Unsplash)
Source: Cup of Jo – cupofjo.com
