My mother exhibits up at my entrance door in the midst of the afternoon, unannounced.
“I’m prepared for a wig,” she declares, strolling proper previous me and pulling off her coat. I’ve requested her many times to warn me earlier than she exhibits up, however she by no means has, not as soon as. Then once more, I preserve letting her in.
“A wig!” I reply, cautiously delighted, and somewhat confused. She’s been bald as an egg from chemo for months; I ponder what has shifted. However I’m thrilled with this clear directive — one thing we are able to truly do for her, for as soon as — that I shut my laptop computer and supply to make us lunch.
She calls out wig info from my breakfast nook, as I take a bag of Dealer Joe’s gnocchi from the freezer and dump it in a pan. “So, there’s faux hair and actual hair,” she says. “Faux-hair wigs final six months on common. Actual hair is dearer, nevertheless it lasts for over a yr.”
“How a lot are we speaking about?”
“A couple of hundred versus a thousand, I believe.” She seems at me and I look again, spatula within the air, making an attempt to maintain my face clean — to sidestep the topic of “lasting,” and months and years. Since her most cancers analysis, she’s had a full-day surgical procedure, two hospital stays, genetic sequencing, and 6 rounds of chemo. Every milestone has led to extra dangerous information. The five-year survival charge for leiomyosarcoma is 14 p.c, I do know that by coronary heart. Every little thing I learn says she has 9 to fifteen months to stay. (She might be gone in lower than a yr, however we don’t know that but.) “Somebody must be in that 14 p.c,” she tells me, every time I recommend she begin withdrawing her retirement early. So, we eat lunch and make plans to take a look at a wig retailer this night after which see a film.
Arriving at Wigland, we creep round for 10 minutes, ready for the following free staffer. We stroll shyly down the rows of disembodied show heads, exchanging amused glances however afraid to the touch something. The low ceilings and dangerous lighting, the dead-eyed stares of the wig mannequins — all of it feels weighted with which means, and I combat the urge to flee.
When it’s our flip to be helped, Brian, the proprietor, is cautious with us, his method sidelong. “How a lot are you aware about wigs?” he asks with tender curiosity. “Completely nothing!” I reply, too keen. Brian doesn’t miss a beat. First, he tells us about artificial wigs, which, he stresses, can’t be uncovered to warmth. It’s important to watch out reaching into the oven, or the bangs will frizzle. I snort nervously, then fear it could be inappropriate on this setting. Wigs are so near a joke, or a gag, but additionally, crucially, under no circumstances.
Blessedly, my amusement solely appears to encourage Brian. He grins and reminds us to be conscious of the dishwasher, too — the recent steam. I’m amazed, my dread giving option to admiration. The issues individuals — wig individuals — undergo, whereas individuals like me stay blithely clueless. “Oh, sure, and also you need to avoid barbecues,” he provides, a twinkle in his eye. I need to say we’re experiencing camaraderie. Isn’t the world humorous? Isn’t being human humiliating? Ha!
Lastly, my mother sits to be fitted, and now Brian actually shines. He places on the wig cap with such evident care: “Does that really feel okay? How is your scalp doing with the remedies? I do know it may be additional delicate.”
Mother lights up beneath his attentive gaze. “It seems like a fishnet stocking!” she says of the wig cap, embracing the absurdity. “It certain does.” He adjusts her. “One optimistic in all that is that you’ve got an important head for wigs.” Mother replies: “Actually?” as flattered and disbelieving as a baby.
Brian desires a way of what she regarded like, earlier than. Currently I’ve resisted wanting again at previous photographs, the place she seems a lot youthful and lively, however now I soar on the alternative to scroll again by means of my telephone. There she is: medium-brown hair to her shoulders, reddish-blonde highlights framing her face. She used a curling iron virtually each day, for so long as I may bear in mind. I proudly hand Brian my telephone — my lovely mom! — and he exhibits no disappointment or remorse when he sees her; simply squints at her hair after which rushes off, a person on a mission.
He returns with a stack of wigs, referring to them as “her” and “she,” which brings me pleasure every time. They appear alive in his arms when he slides them out of their containers — an array of shoulder-length brunettes, graying auburns, and numerous gradients of salt-and-pepper. They appear like my mom to me — like some long-lost physique half. Like possibly her hair was right here in Wigland the entire time?
The primary he presents to us is a chestnut bob with bangs. She seems each not-quite-right and a lot extra proper than she did a second in the past. She is given again to me, briefly. I snort gleefully, and take so many photographs. The subsequent one is simply too grey — grayer than she was. My mother laughs in horror, saying she seems like her mom. She does look precisely like Gram, who died just some years in the past at 95, an age that, barring a miracle, my mom won’t ever see. She doesn’t need to appear like her mother, however I would like her to. I would like her to be grey, to have softened, for time to have elapsed, for us to not be on this second. I would like her to age, to stay. I need to have a mother who has made it to the part of life the place her hair is nearly fully white.
Brian has one other one, however he’s anxious we gained’t prefer it. “She’s a little bit of a multitude,” he tells us. “I’m a little bit of a multitude,” Mother laughs. She’s shoulder-length with a swoopy bang, and the shade is near what mother’s as soon as was: a tasteful mix of gray and soiled blonde. Fairly good, we agree. The one, most likely.
At Brian’s urging, we go to the window to see her in pure mild. I take a photograph of each of us, smiling. We’re grinning truly. I really feel immense aid. We glance so regular. Possibly she’s proper, possibly her physician and I’ve written her off prematurely, given up too quickly. Why am I unable to stay within the hopeful place my mom does? The place a 14 p.c likelihood of being alive in 5 years feels vital, value making an attempt for? The place being fallacious isn’t the worst factor that may occur to you?
We take extra photographs. Mother by no means resists taking footage with me now, which I take as a foul signal. Like we each know there are solely so many left. Brian sits her again within the chair and explains all of the tweaks we are able to make to the wig. Thinning it right here and there, shortening the again. No want for a hairdresser, Brian says, smiling. He can do it himself, if we belief him.
“We belief you!” I blurt, with out checking with my mother. In fact we belief him, or I do. I do know that Brian desires extra for my mom than she does for herself. He’ll make it higher, this wig we love already, that’s $220. He can have her again to us in just some days, he says. I need to be like him, to see individuals at their most weak and know that I can enhance their lives — not interpersonally, however with my very own very particular ability.
Again the automotive, I do a three-point flip, directing us towards the movie show. By the point I shift from reverse to drive, I’m jubilant. “I didn’t assume we’d truly purchase one at this time!” I say, wanting over at Mother, now becoming her wool beanie again on her bald head. “Me neither!” she solutions. It appears like we’re two youngsters who simply obtained our ears pierced, or one thing equally healthful and indulgent. I ponder what else we are able to do — how else we are able to chase this sense, earlier than it’s not out there to us.
Meaghan O’Connell is freelance author and editor and the writer of the 2018 memoir And Now We Have Every little thing: On Motherhood Earlier than I Was Prepared. You could find her work in New York Journal, Romper, The New York Instances, and her publication, What The Residing Do.
P.S. The Lifeless Dad Membership, and 9 life classes I discovered after my most cancers analysis.
(Prime picture by Jerusha/Unsplash.)
