“It doesn’t even look like a wig,” my intern said, trying her best to be reassuring. “I couldn’t even tell.”
That is, of course until, the darn thing fell off my head.
Except for the occasional set of braids, I’ve never been a weave girl. But lately, I’ve been toying with idea of “going natural”, so I’ve been trying out alternate hairstyles during my “transition” period. My half-wig, Sheila, has been a godsend. Yes, I named my wig.
Me and Sheila.
I’ve got a full head of hair so I don’t rock Sheila out of necessity as much as I do for convenience. She just makes life so much easier. Like a Batwoman for the bad hair day. Can’t get that side part just right? Call Sheila! Bangs looking a bit blah? Sheila’s got it. Too lazy for the flat iron this morning? Sheila to the rescue! She’s a big, curly “Number 2,” full of life and personality. She’d never done me wrong, until she did.
On that particular morning things weren’t looking good. Dealing with the two different hair textures (curly-coils and straight) can turn even a pony tail into a war zone. I was battling between new growth and relaxed strands. Nothing was working. On the brink of frustration and tears, I threw on my trusty Sheila (or so I thought) and left for work.
During our mid-morning recap of reality TV shows and on-going conversation about hair, the unthinkable happened. Somewhere between the Stevie J love triangle and rehashing my hair that morning, Sheila decided she’d had enough. My half-wig silently and ever-so-gently slid off of my head and to the floor.
Now mind you, I was sitting down when it happened, not doing jumping jacks or swiveling neck exercises. I wasn’t doing anything to upset Sheila. I was just talking. And Sheila shut me (and everyone else) up.
Mid sentence I felt my wig exit stage left. There she was at my feet, laid out in all her curly glory. Oh my God, I thought. That really just happened.
I broke the painful silence that filled the room by stating the obvious.
“Oh Lord,” I shouted. “My wig fell off!” Nobody said a word, not even “DUH!”
I decided that I had two choices. I could either grab Sheila and run out of the office screaming or I could pick her up and put her on in front of everyone. Thankfully I had my big girl panties on that day, so I leaned over, scooped up my wig and secured her in her proper place of glory as if I were in my own bathroom. I tried to laugh it off.
“I am so embarrassed,” I said, before adding, “so, so embarrassed.”
“It doesn’t even look like a wig,” my intern said. “I couldn’t even tell.”
I think lies were invented for days like this.
I waited a while before escaping to the ladies. Yep, I was still trying to play the whole thing off. Oh my wig literally flipped? No biggie. But once inside the bathroom I gave Sheila a stern talking to in the mirror, then I pulled the drawstrings that keep her in line tight enough to cross my eyes. Is this what Beyonce has to deal with?
Since I was having such a crappy day, I decided to go home for lunch and hit the restart button. Before I could even open up the door to my apartment, I snatched Sheila off, not caring if a neighbor caught me wigless. I was still pissed that she betrayed me. If she could slip off of my head at work, while I was sitting down, she could slip off anywhere. At a restaurant, on a date, at a party, during a windy day… I couldn’t trust her anymore.
After ditching Shelia, I styled my own hair, which actually went smoothly this time with a little product and patience. If I’d taken a moment that morning to get my head on straight I probably could have avoided the whole disaster. But even if she did teach me a lesson about patience, I couldn’t look at Sheila for two weeks.
These days she’s slowly regaining my trust. I can look back at the memory of Sheila on the floor and actually laugh (but I won’t be laughing if it happens again). When I wear her now, I make sure that she’s super tight. I’ll take a headache over humiliation any day.