Discovering the Marvels of Wigland

My mom appears at my doorstep in the middle of the afternoon, unexpectedly.

“I’m ready for a wig,” she announces, strolling straight past me and removing her coat. I have repeatedly asked her to inform me before coming over, but she never does, not once. Yet, I keep letting her in.

“A wig!” I respond, cautiously pleased, and slightly puzzled. She’s been bald due to chemo for months; I ponder what has changed. But I’m excited by this clear decision — something we can indeed do for her, for once — that I shut my laptop and offer to prepare us lunch.

She shares wig facts from my breakfast nook, as I grab a bag of Trader Joe’s gnocchi from the freezer and pour it into a pan. “So, there’s synthetic hair and real hair,” she explains. “Synthetic wigs last around six months. Real hair is costlier but lasts over a year.”

“What’s the cost difference?”

“Several hundred compared to a thousand, I think.” She looks at me and I look back, holding a spatula, trying to maintain a neutral expression — to avoid the topic of “lasting,” and months and years. Since her cancer diagnosis, she’s undergone full-day surgery, been hospitalized twice, had genetic sequencing, and undergone six rounds of chemo. Each milestone led to more bad news. The five-year survival rate for leiomyosarcoma is 14 percent, something I know by heart. Everything I read indicates she has nine to 15 months left. (She will be gone in less than a year, but we’re unaware of that yet.) “Someone has to be in that 14 percent,” she tells me when I suggest she start tapping into her retirement early. So, we eat lunch and plan to visit a wig shop this evening and then catch a movie.

At Wigland, we browse for 10 minutes, waiting for the next available staffer. We shyly navigate the rows of disembodied display heads, exchanging amused looks but scared to touch anything. The low ceilings and poor lighting, the dead-eyed stares of the wig mannequins — it all feels laden with meaning, and I resist the urge to bolt.

When it’s our turn, Brian, the owner, approaches us cautiously. “How much do you know about wigs?” he asks with gentle curiosity. “Absolutely nothing!” I reply, overly eager. Brian doesn’t hesitate. He starts by explaining synthetic wigs, emphasizing, they must not be heated. You must be cautious when reaching into the oven, or the bangs may frizzle. I laugh nervously, then wonder if it’s inappropriate here. Wigs are close to a joke, a gag, but crucially, not at all.

Blessedly, my amusement seems to encourage Brian. He smiles and reminds us to be careful about the dishwasher, too — the hot steam. I’m amazed, my dread turning into admiration. The things people — wig people — endure, while people like me remain blissfully ignorant. “Oh, yes, and avoid barbecues,” he adds, a sparkle in his eye. I want to say we’re experiencing camaraderie. Isn’t the world amusing? Isn’t being human embarrassing? Ha!

Eventually, my mom sits to be fitted, and now Brian truly excels. He carefully puts on the wig cap: “Does that feel okay? How is your scalp handling the treatments? I know it can be very sensitive.”

Mom lights up under his attentive gaze. “It looks like a fishnet stocking!” she exclaims about the wig cap, embracing the absurdity. “It sure does.” He adjusts her. “A positive here is that you have a great head for wigs.” Mom answers, “Really?” as flattered and skeptical as a child.

Brian wants to know what she looked like before. Lately, I’ve hesitated to look back at old photos, where she looks so much younger and full of life, but now I leap at the chance to scroll through my phone. There she is: medium-brown hair to her shoulders, reddish-blonde highlights framing her face. She used a curling iron almost daily, for as long as I can remember. I proudly hand Brian my phone — my beautiful mom! — and he shows no sadness or regret on seeing her; just focuses on her hair and then rushes off, a man on a mission.

He returns with a selection of wigs, calling them “her” and “she,” which delights me every time. They seem alive in his hands when he removes them from their boxes — a variety of shoulder-length brunettes, graying auburns, and different shades of salt-and-pepper. They resemble my mother to me — like a long-lost body part. As if her hair was here in Wigland the entire time?

The first he shows us is a chestnut bob with bangs. She seems both slightly off and much more herself than a moment ago. She’s given back to me, briefly. I laugh joyously, taking numerous photos. The next is too gray — grayer than she ever was. My mom laughs in horror, saying she looks like her mother. She does resemble Gram, who passed a few years ago at 95, an age that, barring a miracle, my mom won’t reach. She doesn’t want to resemble her mom, but I want her to. I want her to be gray, to have softened, for time to have passed, for us to no longer be in this moment. I want her to age, to live. I want to have a mom who has reached the stage where her hair is almost white.

Brian has another option, but he fears we won’t like it. “She’s a bit messy,” he warns. “I’m a bit messy,” Mom laughs. It’s shoulder-length with a swoopy bang, and the shade is close to what mom’s hair once was: a tasteful blend of grey and dirty blonde. Pretty perfect, we agree. Probably the one.

At Brian’s suggestion, we go to the window to see her in natural light. I take a photo of both of us, smiling. We’re actually beaming. I feel tremendous relief. We appear so normal. Perhaps she’s right, perhaps her doctor and I have given up too soon, underestimated her. Why can’t I inhabit the hopeful space my mom does? Where a 14 percent chance of being alive in five years feels worthwhile, worth striving for? Where being wrong isn’t the worst outcome?

We take more photos. Mom never declines photos with me now, which I see as ominous. Like we both know there aren’t many left. Brian seats her back in the chair and explains the adjustments we can make to the wig. Thinning here and there, shortening the back. No need for a hairdresser, Brian assures with a smile. He can handle it himself, if we trust him.

“We trust you!” I exclaim, without consulting my mom. Of course, we trust him, or at least I do. I feel that Brian wants more for my mom than even she does. He will make it better, this wig we already cherish, priced at $220. He can have her ready for us in just a few days, he says. I want to be like him, to see people at their most vulnerable and know I can enhance their lives — not personally, but with my unique skill.

Back in the car, I execute a three-point turn, directing us to the movie theater. By the time I shift from reverse to drive, I’m jubilant. “I didn’t think we’d buy one today!” I say, glancing at Mom, now fitting her wool beanie back on her bald head. “Me neither!” she replies. It feels like we’re two teenagers who just had our ears pierced, or something equally wholesome and indulgent. I wonder what else we can do — how else we can chase this feeling, before it’s gone.

Meaghan O’Connell is a freelance writer and editor and the author of the 2018 memoir And Now We Have Everything: On Motherhood Before I Was Ready. You can find her work in New York Magazine, Romper, The New York Times, and her newsletter, What The Living Do.

P.S. The Dead Dad Club, and nine life lessons I learned after my cancer diagnosis.

(Top photo by Jerusha/Unsplash.)