THE WIG AND I was abridged and published in THE NEW YORK TIMES SUNDAY MAGAZINE on May 2, 2010.
This doesn't sound like a funny story - at first. After all, I was in France. In a small town. In Provence. In chemotherapy.
Like French trains, right on schedule, 18 days after the first chemo treatment, my longish blonde hair began taking nightly hikes across the vast plains of my bedclothes, electing residence in messy clumps on the back of my couch and upholstering the jackets of all the friends on whose shoulders I was crying.
"Get a wig!" they clamored. "Go get yourself a wig."
"Me? Ms. Authenticity. You want ME to wear a wig?" I wailed.
Soon, great patches of skin all over my head glared through sparse tufts of what was left of my hair. I looked a sight. "Okay" I shrugged and sighed a mist of exasperation steam onto my looking glass. "I'll get a wig."
I drove into town to have my head shaved. But I ran into opposition from Jean, my hairdresser. He preferred to snip what was left of my hair to one short centimeter all over my head. Now a cover-up was urgent. I had to do something - and fast! I hurried on up to the local "Capillary Institute" (the only game in town for wigs) to be fitted for a rug.
There, I met Danièle, the town wig monger. And that's when the fun began.
Danièle's giddy desire to see me topped by some kind of "coiffure" that pleased her (and not me) makes for a might wacky tale.
Happy ending? Download THE WIG AND I and see for yourself.
This doesn't sound like a funny story - at first. After all, I was in France. In a small town. In Provence. In chemotherapy.
Like French trains, right on schedule, 18 days after the first chemo treatment, my longish blonde hair began taking nightly hikes across the vast plains of my bedclothes, electing residence in messy clumps on the back of my couch and upholstering the jackets of all the friends on whose shoulders I was crying.
"Get a wig!" they clamored. "Go get yourself a wig."
"Me? Ms. Authenticity. You want ME to wear a wig?" I wailed.
Soon, great patches of skin all over my head glared through sparse tufts of what was left of my hair. I looked a sight. "Okay" I shrugged and sighed a mist of exasperation steam onto my looking glass. "I'll get a wig."
I drove into town to have my head shaved. But I ran into opposition from Jean, my hairdresser. He preferred to snip what was left of my hair to one short centimeter all over my head. Now a cover-up was urgent. I had to do something - and fast! I hurried on up to the local "Capillary Institute" (the only game in town for wigs) to be fitted for a rug.
There, I met Danièle, the town wig monger. And that's when the fun began.
Danièle's giddy desire to see me topped by some kind of "coiffure" that pleased her (and not me) makes for a might wacky tale.
Happy ending? Download THE WIG AND I and see for yourself.
