I suppose part three of this story could be called “the wig years.” Sigh. I have put off writing this part of the story, but there’s nothing super surprising about it to anyone who has read any of this blog already. Wigs are a regular part of my life. I just really wish they weren’t.
So let’s talk wigs for a moment. What’s the big deal? Aren’t I grateful for them? Yes!! 100%!!! I just also resent them at the same time. It turns out that a love/hate relationship really is a thing.
I love that wigs cover me, that they look pretty normal, that I can use them like camouflage to slip in among the “haired” people of the world without standing out in the crowd. I love the security and normalcy they give me. I love the ability to have long, thick hair and to look and feel prettier and more put together than I often do when looking at patchy baldness. I am extremely thankful that they exist as an option for people dealing with hair loss for any reason, and I love that they are an option for me.
The flip side of this particular coin is that I really resent essentially wearing a hat all day, every single day. It can get hot and uncomfortable. It's hard to determine what’s the lesser of the evils…just hoping it doesn’t slip off, or using tape for added security but then damaging any hair growth happening underneath. I have a consistent concern that it will come off unexpectedly (and I have more than once practiced what I might say in such a situation). Sweating in a wig is no fun – your body just doesn’t cool itself off normally.
To be honest with you, even the word wig really irritates me. It’s not a very pretty word, is it? We don’t call mine a wig – we call it my hair. Because that’s what it is. I may pay for it and put it on every day, but it’s my hair. Or at most, we refer to it as my “hair hat,” because “wig” just drives me nuts. I know that everyone has pet peeves. Apparently this one is mine. Is it denial? Maybe. But control over the language I use about it seems to make a difference for me, so I’m going with it.
Ah...but you clicked on this link for the actual story, didn’t you? Let’s get back to that.
As I mentioned before, it was upon moving to a new state that we bought my first wig in over a decade, and I began to get to know people as a different version of myself. I was so thankful for it and for the security and confidence it gave me. I didn’t want to post pictures of myself on social media for a long time though because I didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to the sudden and drastic change in my hair. This meant that in some ways I avoided connecting with my very dear friends from just weeks before. Looking back I wish I had just given people more credit! At any rate, it was scary the first few times I did see friends and family with the wig on… and with some of them I talked about it and with others I just ducked my head in the sand and pretended they didn’t notice. I highly doubt that was the case, but we do what we need to do to cope, right?
Throughout this season I never imagined that my hair wouldn’t grow back again. I assumed that because it had come back so well the first time that this was a blip. It would be a good reminder to me to count my blessings and appreciate whatever hair I did have, but it wouldn’t stay this way for long.
I bought my second wig when we moved again a year and a half later. I had a better understanding of wigs at this point and bought one that looked and felt a little more natural. I made the switch en route to our new home, and once again avoided social media to evade conversations about sudden and drastic change. I got steroid shots in my scalp and tried the anthralin cream that had worked so well for me a decade prior, but it just didn’t make an impact. Finally, my dermatologist told me that the only weapon left in his arsenal was squaric acid, which would agitate my scalp and possibly cause an allergic reaction to initiate new hair growth. I declined. I had a job and a life and decided I couldn’t afford to be massively uncomfortable underneath a wig and still give my full attention to my obligations and commitments. So that was the end of treatment for a long time. I had to accept that significant alopecia was the way it would be going forward. How I cried.
The closest “wig salon” to where I lived was a good 2-hour drive away, so over the next five years my family would make occasional day trips to another city to get new hair for me. I remember when my son was two or three years old just fretting that it would freak him out if I took him into a wig salon, where there are typically rows and rows of wig stands that look like heads with a variety of hair colors and styles. I was so concerned about this, but it turned out to be unnecessary. My son was already used to me taking my hair on and off – and come on, he was young. How observant are young kids? The truth is, I realized as other women walked in and out of the salon that day taking off their hair, trying on various wigs, and getting them cut and styled, that taking him to a wig salon may have been the best thing I could do for him. It normalizes this. It lets him know that mommy is not the only one to deal with this – and there are other beautiful women who live this way with grace, good humor, and occasional tears.
It turns out that you can buy the exact same style and make of wig, but no two wigs are exactly the same. Because of this, I learned to time my “switches” around vacations or holidays. Just enough time away from my colleagues and friends that they may not notice minor length or color changes the way they probably would from one day to the next.
The climate where we lived was extremely hot during the summer, so there were a lot less outdoor adventures during this season of life than in previous ones. I stayed indoors more. I wore a wig even to the pool with a special swim hat over it called a Nammu. This really was a good solution as long as I kept my head above water, but if you are thinking to yourself that it sounds uncomfortable to swim with a wet wig on your head, you are completely right. This is just an example of the way that, from the start of this season in my alopecia journey, my wig became a primary factor in determining what activities I did or did not do.
I have mentioned in previous posts that when it finally occurred to me that I’d been dealing with (and living under the control of) alopecia for 20 years, I decided I wanted more freedom in my life. That’s when I started challenging myself to talk to some neighbors and friends about my hair and began to wear hats around my neighborhood. I even essentially dared myself to go to a store one time bald-headed. This process was terrifying and freeing and wonderful. I embraced this new way of being for a number of months and then … we moved. Again.
The rest of the story will bring us up to today, so let’s save that part for another time.
Thank you for so much for sticking with me as I share my experience. I appreciate you more than I can say.
XO,
Lindsay
