Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
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By Robin Garrison Leach
The clothes I wear at home are as comfortable as they are cringey. I pull on my black leggings and wrestle into a baggy sweatshirt; good enough. I give little thought to my appearance.
What is troubling me is that I’ve started wearing my stretchy pants in public, and I’ve convinced myself it’s okay to run to the corner store in my slovenly “home” clothes.
It is happening. I’m choosing function over fashion. Safety and ease over style. Sloth over industrious determination to remain vibrant.
At 20, I couldn’t imagine it. At 40, I resisted the thought. And at 65, when I was confronted with the realization of my advanced years by being called ‘ma’am’ constantly, I still raged against the notion that I would give in.
But here I am, swaddled in dowdy duds and thumbing through websites for ways to make my dwindling lifetime easy and comfy.
I know. It doesn’t matter what others think. No one is looking at me. All I should be concerned with is carefree sunset years cushioned in safety and simplicity.
Self-image DOES determine attitude and mental health, though. Maybe I will feel younger/better/prettier if I dress for success every day. Maybe I’ll start popping out of bed with vigor and excitement for what the day will bring, once I look at a calendar and see just what day it is.
So, I decided, as kind of New Year’s resolution, to take more pride in my appearance. And I’m starting at the top.
My hair is thinning along the part-line, and I have a tell-tale bald area the back of my head. My hairdresser has lied for a decade that it’s just a pesky cowlick. Nope. It’s a bald spot.
A few weeks ago, I bought a hair topper. Surely, I reasoned, I could muster enough courage and initiative to slap on a mop of synthetic hair and at least look younger down to my neck.
The partial wig is the color of my own hair beneath. It clips in securely and is easy to wear. And I think it looks okay. So why do I feel like I’m wearing Davy Crockett’s coonskin cap when I step outside?
The first time I wore it was to Walgreens. I figured it was the perfect place, full of sick, distracted people with problems of their own. Nobody looked at me, as usual. But I felt as if there were a cartoon bubble above my head that flashed capital letters:
THIS. LADY. IS. WEARING. FAKE. HAIR.
As I walked out the automatic door, a like-aged woman was strolling toward me. She smiled, so I attacked.
“You look friendly. Tell me. Can you tell I’m wearing a hair topper? Be honest.”
The poor stranger’s eyes bulged and her smile froze in place. She could see how important her answer was to this insecure lady. She surveyed the hair above my pleading eyes. She took a breath and puffed out a kind word salad of compliments.
“What? Really? Well, I would never have known. It looks so natural…”
As she babbled on, I blushed in happiness. My hair looked full. And real. To a complete stranger. What more could I ask?
I tried not to notice as she edged past me, clutching her purse a bit tighter. I had no doubt she’d be retelling our interaction at parties and family dinners.
Since then, I’ve worn my new hair a time or two, staring at my reflection in windows and patting it like a pet hamster.
I hope I look stunning, and if not, at least charmingly eccentric. If you see me in town, just smile and walk on by. Or, you can give my imitation hair a stabilizing pat, just for fun.
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].
