Wiggin'

Yesterday, with nothing on my stomach but a homemade ginger-ale, I headed up to Skokie to purchase a cranial prothesis. Jerome Krause Fashion Hair, a promising name if ever I heard one, is located in grayish little medical building. There were nearer fake hair emporiums, but Krause was recommended by a friend who knows a couple of women with alopecia, and they swore by the place. It's also in center of the Orthodox Jewish community in Chicagoland, and those woman know from wigs.















Our introduction to wig-shopping was a little rocky at first, since our stylist Linda had not been informed of our appointment. But she dropped the hank of premium Ukrainian hair she was dyeing at the time, and served us with enthusiasm one rarely sees directed at chunks of inert protein. She brought out boxes and boxes of wigs, some hand-sewn, some machine-sewn, some synthetic, some human. Oh, the Russian hair is the best, she said. I patted some Russian hair, and it was sexy, smooth, and oh god...whose head did this hair belong to? Too disturbing. I started hearing that Wallace Shawn monologue The Fever in my head, and I couldn't consider wearing it. Let's buy some hair made in a sweatshop in Thailand, shall we? Much bettah..

I always knew I had an enormous head, confirmed every time I tried on Easter bonnets at Marshall Field's, and all of them perched on the top of my skull, like those comical little hats you see on lady clowns at the circus. Linda measured my head. "Is it huge?" I asked. "No, no..you are in the average range, 22 inches." What was the large range? "22 1/4 inches and above." My head was only largeISH. I also had, Linda informed me, a pronounced occipital bone, which was why wigs that looked great on most women made me look like I had a football coming out of the back of my head.


Because of the "hump," we decided to go with sleeker wigs, although I think this one goes a bit too far. It makes the fashion statement: I'm a high-strung German Philosophy doctoral candidate who chainsmokes and uses the word "bricolage" in regular conversation.









Then, there's this wig. I believe it was called "Cheryl," but I like to call it "MILF." No, no and no.



















This was called "Danielle." I call it "WTF?"


















Finally, we save the best for last. My husband modeling the "Phil Spector." Actually, it was "MILF" turned a little sideways.

I finally settled on a sassy red bob, and Linda clipped and styled it into a more hairdo-like shape. I'll post that later, since I still think it needs a few tweaks.