My hair had
never been what you would call “luxurious.”
Pantene shampoo marketers had never phoned and begged me to be in one of
their commercials. Even my beloved gayer-than-Liberace
hairdresser of 20 years had frequently oh-so-subtlely hinted, “Hon, let’s consider
going ultra-short!”
But then I'd
gaze in the mirror at my lackluster blond hair, and I'd see Alice in
Wonderland. Yes, a stringier, more
split-endier version of my childhood idol, but Alice nonetheless.
“I like it
long,” I would say to Robert-the-hair-guru, and he would give me a weak Mona Lisa smile and
reluctantly set down the scissors.
So it should
come as somewhat of a surprise that women (yes, that is plural) literally stopped
me on the street one day to compliment me on my gorgeous hair.
I did not
have the heart to tell them it was a special hair clip made of (I hoped) horse hair but possibly (I tried not to think about it too much) even human hair.
Human hair that some altruistic soul had chopped off to donate to cancer
victims who had lost their hair to chemotherapy and radiation, not exactly
meant for narcissistic stringy-haired individuals like me who just wanted to
look like Heidi Klum or Claudia Schiffer for once in her life.
I had been
shopping at Nordstrom with my mom (a rarity, since I favored Target and she
preferred to not shop at all since “I will always see something I want to buy
and then have to buy it”) when we innocently wandered into the hair accessories
department.
Sparkly
barrettes and satin headbands had beckoned to us, like an all-you-can-eat
buffet of Godiva chocolate at a Weight Watchers' meeting, when I saw it: a fluffy blond hair clip that pretty much
doubles the volume of your hair. Not
only that, but it was the EXACT color of my own hair, a golden blond with a
touch of mousiness for reality’s sake. (Now you can see these hair thingies at kiosks in malls everywhere, but this was 15 years ago, so they were a complete novelty at the time.)
I tried it
on, pulling the front sections of my own hair back into this blond wonder. My new (fake) hair cascaded in a way that can
only be described as “super model.” I
instantly looked 10 years younger, 10 pounds lighter, and 10 IQ points
dumber. I had to have it.
My mom, who
had been posing with brunette poufy pony-tail holders and I-Dream-of-Jeannie fake
braids, glanced at me, grabbed her chest, and let out a loud gasp. When she regained her composure, she began to
ramble:
“Oh, MOV,
that wig is stunning! You have to buy it. Wow!
You look amazing. How much is
it? You know what, I’ll buy it for you. We used to call them ‘falls’ back in my day,
but these new ones are such better quality.
Oh, MOV, look in the mirror.”
She was
right, there was no way we were walking out of Nordstrom without it. My mom pulled out her Mastercard and chatted
cheerfully with the salesgirl.
“You must
sell a lot of these, right? What a great
product. I might have to come back and
buy one for myself, too.”
The salesgirl
nodded encouragingly, and then turned to me and asked, “Do you want to wear
it home right now?”
Here is
where I panicked. Wear it? Wear a wig? I began to have second thoughts just as my
mom was signing the credit card slip.
“No, uh, it
is for special occasions. Can I just
have a bag, please?”
“And lots of
tissue paper,” interjected my mom with a wink.
“And maybe a nice shiny box with your pretty Nordstrom logo.” My mom liked the entire experience of
high-end department stores, which is why she was wise to stay at home with her
credit cards tucked safely away and try to get some gardening done
instead.
As we walked
out of the silver mecca that is Nordstrom, I gave my mom a big hug. The fake hair had been expensive, a real
splurge. It is not something I would
normally have bought for myself.
“When are
you going to wear it?” she asked, still giddy from buying a frivolous present for
her daughter.
“Maybe out
to dinner with The Husband?” I volunteered.
“That would be fun.”
The
opportunity arose faster than I thought.
A mere week later, The Husband told me his work was hosting a Christmas
luncheon at a local restaurant and spouses were invited. I put
on my cutest black dress with a short red jacket and a colorful silk scarf tied
around my neck like I was French, or an American pretending to be French. Then, as the finishing touch, I put on the
new blond hair clip, fastening it securely high on the top of my head for
maximum impact.
When I
walked out of the bathroom from getting ready, The Husband actually swooned. There was no other word for it.
“MOV, you
look so beautiful! Did you just get your
hair done today? Did you buy those hair roller
things that plug in? WOW! How did you get your hair to do that? You should wear your hair like that every day.”
I basked in the glory of the undeserved attention, and momentarily considered telling him it was a just a fluffy hair clip. A fake.
But then I reconsidered, because I did not want him to tease me about
it, even in jest, nor accidentally slip and tell one of his co-workers. Instead, I played it cool.
“You like my
hair?” I whispered, channeling Marilyn Monroe.
“Well, I tried a new conditioner.”
“Whatever
conditioner it was, we are buying stock in it.
Okay, let’s get going.” He had a
grin plastered to his face as if he had just found a $100 bill lying on the
sidewalk.
When we got
to the restaurant and valet-parked the car, three random women standing on the
curb waiting for their cars said, “Your hair is soooooooooooo pretty!” They looked at me with pure admiration and
perhaps a slight touch of envy.
We walked
into the private room and most of The Husband’s co-workers were already
there. They greeted me enthusiastically
and smiled warmly at me and my hair.
I ordered a
club sandwich and a glass of Pinot Grigio (everyone else was ordering wine or
liquor, and since it was the holiday season, I thought, Why not?). I was suddenly
very self-conscious and concerned that I might have a stray piece of bacon in
my teeth. Honestly, I shouldn’t have
worried about that at all. I should have
been thinking about my hair. Throughout
lunch, The Husband, sitting right next to me and with his hand on my back, had
been absent-mindedly petting my long flowing locks, like I was some exotic
creature from the petting zoo. Maybe a
rare pink sheep.
Now, The
Husband is not one to pet my hair. He
never did that before, and I can safely say he has never done it since. But in that one particular moment, he could
not stop stroking my magnificent Brigitte Bardot hair.
I started
obsessing about the bacon potentially lodged in my teeth. Lettuce could be stuck in there as well, and
this combination (in my Pinot Grigio-addled brain) convinced me that The
Husband could end up getting fired for being married to someone like me. Someone who was … messy and a bad eater.
I
excused myself to the ladies’ room and
was shocked to see that not only had my new hair clip not stayed on the top of
my head like it was supposed to, but the clippy portion was somehow defective
and had loosened to the point that it was half-way down my back. I was like some mutant “Growing Hair Barbie” experiment
gone grossly awry.
I tried to
unclip it and re-clip it, but then a few of the plastic teeth of the clips
broke off in my fingers as I clumsily attempted to adjust it. The bathroom was the kind that only one
person can fit in and lock the door, so someone (The Husband’s co-worker? his boss?
the owner of the restaurant?) started knocking.
“Just a
minute!” I screeched.
I felt big
tears well up in my eyes, but I knew a smeary mascara look would only make
things worse. As a last resort, I
hastily untied my scarf from around my neck and somehow managed to loop it back
around the hair piece to hold everything in place. I looked very different than when I had gone
into the ladies’ room originally.
When I
returned to the table, I leaned down and whispered to The Husband, “The crab
cakes made me sick. We have to leave
right now.”
Stunned, he
volleyed back, “You had a club sandwich.”
“We. Have.
To. Leave.” I smiled through gritted teeth.
The Husband turned to his co-workers and announced apologetically, “Sorry,
guys, you know MOV is a flight attendant and she just got paged for a
flight. We have to go. So sorry.”
Several
people stood up at the table to shake hands with me, and then The Husband’s
boss leaned in for a hug.
I cringed
inside. Please don’t hug me, dear God, you’re going to pull my hair, no, no
hugs!
I decided to
kiss him instead. A kiss would throw him
off guard and maybe make him forget all about the hug.
I leaned in
for a peck on his cheek, and he pulled away so as not to be kissed by me, but
we inadvertently found ourselves kissing on the lips.
The kiss was
approximately half a second, maybe less, but we were both mortified. His wife, still seated, took another swig of
her wine, then glared at me and my silk scarf tied around my head.
The Husband
and I walked out to the car in icy silence. He finally sneered,
“What the hell was THAT all about?” right as the valet was bringing our car
around. He handed the valet a $5 bill,
then got in the driver’s seat, leaving me to get in on my side by myself.
Just when I
thought things could not possibly get any worse, the valet helped me into my
seat and shut the door. On my hair.
We started
to drive away and the valet frantically chased after us, with my hair piece in
his hand. The Husband stopped the car,
and rolled down the passenger window.
“Miss, miss,
you dropped this!” the valet said apologetically as he held out the fake hair.
“No, that’s
not mine,” I said without even looking at him, and then we drove away, me
stringy-haired as ever.
MOV
