dialogue with nada, the wig

[Guest guest]

Perhaps others have nadas who wear wigs.

I love how one of you is planning to use a Galapagos vacation to capture family

in action. Here was a dialogue that showed up almost immediately after my

husband told me it might be a good exercise for me, to use my conversations with

nada as a writing practice! I sense this one is destined for publication, once

it reaches the right editor. I'd appreciate HOW this kooky conversation shows

BPD in action. After working with this story in different versions for nearly

two years, I have simply lost perspective.

Here goes:

Having Words about Hair

We take our family photo in November that year, outdoors to the music of

crickets. My husband, son and I, dressed for Christmas in red and green, squint

into sun, posed against the backdrop of naturalized azaleas.

Contemplating our photo as I slip it into an envelope addressed to my mom, I

reflect on the differences between my hair and hers.

I had not worn a hat in my picture; I wear my hair unadorned, silver-gray.

Mom’s always showed an altered self to the camera. In her early thirties, she

enlisted beauty schools to help her remain a youthful blonde.

A natural blonde too, I'd started graying in my late-20's, beginning from the

temples. I chose to stay the course with untouched hair. When I paid a

cross-country visit in my 30’s, Mom was shocked to see how far my gray had come.

She couldn’t help touching it.

“Oh Vicki,” she said, grasping for the right words. “Is that really your hair? “

(Swallowing uneasy laughter, I could not help saying, " No mom, my hair is

purple. I died it gray especially for you! " ) Today I feel compassion, perhaps I

reminded mom of what she might have looked like two decades before, without

color.

Mom is still uneasy about gray. However, now she’s found peace in covering her

tresses with one of the many wigs she keeps in a special closet. Her heads of

hair are varying lengths, in shades ranging from platinum blonde to light brown.

Since we have such different perspectives on how to present ourselves to the

world, I have learned to rely on friends as my mirrors.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My friend Kathy and I area talking at my house, not long after I’ve mailed our

Christmas photo. “Doll, “ she says, looking straight at me. ”Your hair looks

gorgeous. If I had hair like yours I would not color, either.”

Surprised, I confess how I uneasy I had been with most “beauty” decisions. Even

as a young woman, most choices had had not worked for me. Make-up gave me

raccoon-eyes. High heels had created bunions.

I tell Kathy how, as I saw my hair slowly change in the mirror, I would ask, was

it time to color my hair? Or not? My mom nearly destroyed her hair in those

parlors. So, I eventually made my own choice—to simply let it be.

I like to think that, by now, self-acceptance has allowed my mom and I both our

own quiet glory.

But my photo not only spoke its thousand words: it prompted a response.

Shortly after Kathy leaves, the phone rings. I pick it up. It is mom.

She gets right to her point. " I received your Christmas photo.”

She pauses. “Thank you,” she says. “That was a nice picture of all of you. "

I’m happily surprised. Then she drops the bombshell. " You know I have been

thinking, I'd like to buy you a wig. "

I am at the kitchen sink and I almost drop a knife on my foot. “A wig? " I

croak, already laughing in recognition. I imagine her closet, with each wig

perched atop a white Styrofoam face. To mom, I should still be a shade of

blonde.

I can empathize. Her gray was such an issue of concern that she learned to

camouflage it with wigs. So she wants to protect her daughter's dignity with a

wig, too.

It is awhile before mom speaks again. " Your hair looks really nice, " she says,

too late.

" Yeah right, mom, " I snort. I'm really laughing now. " That must be why you

think I need a wig. "

" Oh, Vicki, really, " she protests. " I saw some wigs that look just like your

hair. "

I know she is trying hard not to offend me. My hair MUST look nice if she wants

to give me a duplicate.

But, smart aleck that I am, I have to ask, " Why would I need a wig that looks

just like the hair I already have? "

She’s fast with her retort. " Well, your head isn't covered properly! Isn't it

cold there in winter? "

" In New York state, yes. But Mom, I live in Georgia. "

Maybe because we share the same Plant Hardiness Zone, she decides the climate

argument is worth pursuing.

" People out here in Washington wear wigs,” she offers. “They are nice and warm. "

I protest. " But a wig isn't a hat. "

" People wear them like hats, " she insists.

Now, I have turned off the water and am holding my side, I am laughing so hard.

Where are we going with this?

" Really mom,” I say, “You have created the weirdest fashion picture--everyone

in Seattle wearing a wig like a hat! "

We’re both speechless and my side hurts. The laughter at my end is not easy to

stop.

Finally I can speak again. " Isn't a wig a bit expensive to be used for a hat? " I

say. Surely she’ll agree with that.

" Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re so unaware, " she says. " A good hat costs

money! "

My laughter won’t let me even try to top that. It is time for both of us to

give up our attempts to hold our own in this discussion of hair.

(If only Mom could learn to laugh at her discomfort with my choice to sport my

gray hair. Until then, I’ll have to be comfortable for us both.)