To Wig or Not to Wig

Recently, I discovered my early German ancestors lived in a place once called "Wigmodia."

Considering my current bald status perhaps I am being led by my roots (literally) to place a covering resembling hair atop my head.

But a little history lesson first (no groans from the peanut gallery, please). Curiosity is a terrible thing to waste.

Ancient Egyptian, typically men, often kept their cool with close shaven heads, However, the romantic ladies liked something to run their fingers. Coverings, created from animal fur and other natural sources, became the norm. Nothing says ‘I love you’ like slapping on plaited papyrus held in place with beeswax.

Should the object of desire be wealthy, it was customary to place a dollop of animal fat on the outside of the wig.

Imagine snuggling up to that on a hot night in Alexandria?

Other cultures from the Assyrians to the Greeks and Romans found wigs appealing, as did Asians. Then the fad died out until the 16^th century, where the term ‘you louse’ was frequently heard in some of the finer European royal courts. More than a juvenile insult, unsanitary practices meant many hairstyles came with a pet – namely head lice.

Elizabeth I’s tight red curls were the height of fake Tudor fashion. Kings of France, starting with Louis XIII, started the tradition cascading curls. Following years of French exile, Great Britain’s Charles II’s penchant for periwigs allowed 17^th century men shoulder length and longer hair to blow in the breeze.

My favorite period for wig outs was the 18^th- century. Among potentates, publicans and politicians powered hair ruled. Towering do’s favored by Marie Antoinette was a combo of natural and fake hair. Granted, the guillotine put an end to spectacular tresses adorned with miniature ships, floral extravaganzas and precious jewels, but while tis period lasted it was fantastic.

To my own reality, it was the American Cancer Society that came to the rescue. Without a car, and having had a ride cancel twice, I was a bit desperate that I would be bald before a wig was found.

Thankfully, the terrific director, called Falicia understood my dilemma. With my wish list in hand she mailed three options.

I wanted a short and sassy style and chose to honor my late mother by ordering something in her strawberry blonde hue. All three were spot-on in color.

My only problem was none of them had a photo or anything to mark the front from the back. My virgin status with wigamania was evident with my repeated tendency to look like Cousin It from the 60s TV show The Addams Family.

Finally settling on one and establishing the correct way of wearing it, I set forth to display the new redheaded me.

I received compliments, but admittedly felt odd.

Only once before had I worn a wig during amateur performances of Oklahoma. Since I was not about to belt out Everything’s up to date in Kansas City, adorning fake hair required an adjustment period.

But I am grateful for the choices.

A wig gives me the chance to imagine myself as a woman of intrigue, perhaps a spy.

Wigless, my current health status is understandable to all.

Whether I am Mati Hari or Kojak, my daily journey remains one of doing the best to move forward in a positive way.