Sometimes it just takes one minor incident to make an entire day go bad. For me, I hit my head once on a car door and my wig came off. And rather than leave me alone to take my walk of shame, torn stocking on my head, the taxi driver whose car I'd chosen to sit in had to be a gentleman, and he had to chase after me, wig in hand, to hand it back. See how life's unfair? It was the one time I didn't want a good guy.
Anyways, so this is what happened.
Growing up, I had a countryside home and a lot of tomboy adventures.
As an adolescent teen, I moved in with relatives in a suburban community to train as a young lady, but I never quite fit in there.
I was too rough on the edges, too loud, I couldn't walk in heels to save my life, there was nothing lady-like about me. And I was okay with that for the most part, because books were my escape from the real world.
Once I had books, it didn't matter that I wasn't as polished as other girls my age. I didn't need to be. None of the heroines in fairy tales were either, not the good ones at least.
But then I became an adult and I got this sophisticated job, and I woke up one day to realize that I was just the drab girl with short nails, horrible hair, and terrible fashion sense.
I didn't fit in with my colleagues at all. And it got to me, because it felt like sitting in the full glare of the afternoon sun.
There were no books to escape into, and so I was aware of every glance, every sniff. every snide remark. I began to yearn to fit in. So, this is what I decided to do.
I decided to steal one of my aunt's wigs.
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Now folks, this was in the early 2000s, my aunt was a retiree and she wore a lot of wigs to church. The wigs were perfect for church and for her age.
They weren't human hair wigs, that's for sure. There were no installs, no extensions, and there was this one rule of thumb which was that you had to make sure that the wig you put on was secured on your head, right?
So there were some combs that you had to hook into your wig cap to sort of settle the wig, and then there was a clip at the back that you had to secure.
Guys, I'm sharing all of these steps with you today, but I'll tell you this, the day I stole my aunt's wigs, I knew nothing about them. And so this is what I did.
I didn't have a wig cap, but I figured that the material was similar to my panty hose stockings, and I had quite a few stockings that had runs on them, so I rummaged through my drawers, got one, cut the legs off, tied a huge knot at the top, and tucked my hair beneath it.
When I was finished, I looked like a cat burglar who hadn't quite pulled his mask down yet, and there were rips and tears all over the stockings, but I paid none of this any mind because I figured the stockings were going to be covered by the wig anyway.
So, okay, I put on the wig, pulled it over the stockings like a cap, didn't try to fix any comb, tucked in the clips like straps without joining them, neatened the hair, tried to cover over the matted bits, and I thought, okay, even if I feel super awkward in this, I'm still going to try because I would be able to fit in.
And then, I did the ultimate. I went and found a pair of extremely high heels.
Now I told you guys, I don't do heels. But on this day, with the Devil egging me on as he sat perched on my left shoulder I put the shoes on, grabbed my purse, left home, stumbled into a taxi and was on my way to work. All was well.
My job, guys, I might add, was in the city center. I was travelling to work on Friday. The traffic was horrendous. In the city, there were people everywhere. We were nearing my job, but my driver was stuck and I began to worry that I would be late.
After fidgeting for a bit, I decided it was close enough that I could manage to walk to the building with no accident, and so I thanked my driver and prepared to exit the car. And that is when I hit my head on the door, and the wig came off, and I was left half way exiting the car on stilts, in full business gear, with a knotted stocking on my head that had huge runs on one side so that with my black hair was poking through the holes in the stocking like wild grass. It was a moment, guys. You had to be there.
In that moment, as I was processing my own shock, I heard the driver gasp, and for a brief moment, I froze.
Outside the car, passersby stared. And why wouldn't they? I looked a comical, hot mess! And so, let me tell you, I had to think fast.
The only thing I could think to do was wear the stocking like a costume, act like the wig never happened. And so, without deigning to look back to see my driver's reactions, I stalked off, walking like a drunk on pay day towards my office.
Ten paces.
I know it's ten, guys, I counted them. I was counting to take my mind off the heat of my burning cheeks and to distract myself from noticing the curious stares of passersby.
I counted ten wobbling steps and was about to count my 11th when I felt a tentative hand on my shoulder and heard my taxi driver's voice.
"Excuse me, ma'am."
Tilting my chin even higher, I turned around haughtily. His face was red, he wouldn't meet my eyes, and in his hand was my wig. I swear, I will always believe that if my wig were a cap, this man would have wrung it in his discomfort.
"Yes," I said coolly.
"You dropped your wig, ma'am," and he proffered the wig, hanging limp in his hand.
My mind raced. I wanted to scream that it wasn't mine, but I couldn't exactly do that and look sane, right? I mean I already wasn't making a convincing case for myself.
And so, I took the wig and said thank you, stooped right there, looked at myself in the rear view mirror of a car parked alongside the road, and pulled my wig back on, checked my lipstick, stood up again, and walked away to my office, leaving the driver staring after me.
And that, my friend, is how you rise above humiliation. I mean, it's at least how I did it. 馃槀
Well, my friends, the above is my contribution for this week. And not to worry, the day turned out to be pretty good after all.
To sum it up, I learned later that morning how to put on and adjust wigs.
Of course, my colleagues screamed with laughter until they cried when they learned of my accident, but then they ushered me to the ladies room, cleaned me up, showed me the art of putting on a wig, guided me on choosing the right wig for my face structure and my age, and promised to take me shopping the next week. So this incident resulted in a huge makeover for me, guys, and we all became fast friends after that. All's well that ends well, right?
Take care, everybody! Have a great evening. And remember, one should never take oneself too seriously. After all, where's the fun in that?
