Wigs and Blood

I am Big, It’s the Pictures that got Small

The pictures lay scattered on the plush, coral carpeting of the living room. The living room smells how it has always smelled; of old furniture, various oils that she keeps in that antique, blue wallpaper box, and the faintest hint of cat pee from the strays she always took in. I looked around at her nic-nacs, her glass and crystal swan collection, the piles of old magazines, and of course her three wigs that she always kept pristine, sitting on their props. As I scan the floor, my Grammy is causing some ruckus in the kitchen as always. Pots and pans clang, the microwave is beeping to no avail and her voice sings of complaints and questions. Why can I never find that damn cover...Oh here it is its a tricky one, and the sauce oh Lord I have no sauce..well this is pleasant. What is that noise ugh, Sage what is that beeping? Go get the door bell please darling. Oh and there goes the water all over the counter. 

The complaining is never bad and never annoying. She speaks in a song most of the time because she once could sing, and still does. She was going to be a singer but that fell threw. And her clumsy and spastic movements are never startling. She walks with this grace and prestige, as if the camera is still always on her and she must be ready. She used to act as well. Went to Hollywood and all but that also fell threw. But you would never guess that from the photos. Almost all of the pictures are Polaroid’s and as I looked over the snapshots I sensed that I was getting a glimpse of her life but I wanted to know more. I sat wondering about who she was in the glamour days and where she thought her life was going before she settled in this two bedroom apartment with seven stray cats. So I asked.

It’s easy darling. Its not a puzzle or a riddle or anything to difficult to figure out. I just lived step by step and went through my phases and round a-bouts just like anyone else. You just have to look at those wigs, they tell a story. Yup those wigs. I’ve been through a lot sweetie more then I could spill out all in one sitting. But those wigs have always been around come to think of it. And I always tended to hide behind their color, not that I ever needed to hide you know that, I don’t hide but, you understand. See if you can notice them in the picture, look at my hair darling. Oh Lord the water is boiling...

So I did. I looked at the pictures I had been staring at for so long and started to see the pattern; started to notice. She was born with light brown hair. Naturally golden highlights, with the slightest of curl that one would describe as more of a wave if anything. It was natural and innocent and sweet. The wigs didn't show up until her 20’s. When she was with my Grandfather, her ex-husband now. That love didn’t last too long, and neither did the first wig. It was dark brown, almost black. I kept scanning. I see her with her Golden locks. The wig I had called her mermaid wig ever since I was a child. It was long, blonde beach curls. Glamourous and flowing and very hard to miss. That was in her mid-twenties and in all those pictures she was smiling the biggest smiles. She looked like a star. Then I came across the pictures of my favorite wig. Her fire red pixie cut she wore in her 40‘s. I could see the wigs and the change but I was not understanding the point. Everyone changes their hair once or twice. But that still didn’t answer my questions, I still could not piece together her life by looking at three wigs. And so the water stopped boiling and I asked some more.  

Ok so you want to know. Well I’ll tell you, I love telling stories once you get me started I’m not going to stop. Hmm, where to begin there is so much to tell you. I’ve done a lot in my day, you know your father never likes to listen to my stories. He always says I make them up but I don’t, he just doesn’t ever remember you know. All that pot smoking must have gotten to his head that’s what I tell him. Well let me see. 

As she thinks, she looks at the pictures, smiles and laughs to her self. Thinking of the memories, what stories she wants to tell, if she’ll have time for them all before its time for me to go home. She looks at the picture and then back at the wigs. At the pictures, at me, at the wigs and back and forth. Finally she starts. 

Well you see here.

 As she points to the picture of her in a homemaker, prim and perfect 50’s dress, wearing her Black classic curls.

 This was my first wig that I got right about the time I was involved with your Grandfather. I say involved and not in love for a reason. 

She always had to make that point. 

That wig I never liked so much until years after. Your grandfather wanted me to be a lady, stay home and brush my hair and cook his food. Sounds crazy I know. Psh imagine me taking care of some man, but at that time the idea of a ring and a husband had trapped me. It was all too enticing and it clogged my brain. But I unclogged it quick, 2 years and I was thinking straight again, thank God! I didn’t wear that wig again for a long long time. It stayed in the closet for years. 

That Black wig was her lie. That was the wig she wore to cover who she is. She is a bra-burning, loud mouthed, Maude-esc, proud feminist with not a conventional or conservative bone in her body. That Black classic wig, with the quaint, curls that held those ugly little bows perfectly, was a mask. It was her trying to fit into a role and a norm she never could be and never should have tried to be. It was the chains that held her down for those two years and it was ultimately what was clogging her brain. Once the wig was off, the papers were signed and her lie was hidden in the closet, she could be herself again. I could see the pride in her eyes as she told the story. The pride that was covering the embarrassment that she would ever let some one hold her down. I could see her glaring at the wig periodically as a symbol of that time in her life that she was not strong. But then looking at the pictures and realizing that was all in the past comforted her. That that wig now symbolized nothing other than the fact that she has moved on. Now she only wears it as a joke to the movies theater occasionally and sometimes for Halloween.  

I looked around the floor and spot a snapshot of her with her mermaid wig. It is blowing in the breeze, while she has her arms wrapped around a palm tree on the streets of LA. Here Grammy, I want to know about this time. I want to know everything. You look so happy in all of these pictures. Where are you, what were you doing, what where your dreams. 

That is because those were some of the happiest years of my life darling. I was a star! I was doing exactly what everyone told me I couldn’t ever do. I was doing what everyone had laughed at me for saying was my dream. I was doing it big and loud and proud and oh it was marvelous. See that hair. See it shine in the sun, that’s how bright I was shinin’. See how full it was, how it flowed in the wind. That was me. I was living day to day, as free as a bird, with no worries at all. Other than trying to make it of course. I had nothing to lose you know. I had just broken up with your Grandfather and I wanted to show the world I was not broken. So I threw that boring old Black wig in the closet and picked this one out. It was everything I needed. I packed my bags, moved to Hollywood, and became a star! 

As she busted out into song, to prove to me she still could sing “Memories” from Cats as well as when she was in the re-making of the play years ago, I thought about what she had said. She was free and alive and following her dreams as her hair followed the curves of her youth full frame. She was vivacious, full of life and determined to make it. I could see the drive in her eyes and in her smile; in the pictures and now as she talked about it. She told the stories as if it were yesterday for her. Explains her run in with Muhammad Ali. How she made a joke and he laughed, Oh Muhammad, what a jokester he was, as if they had been friends forever. She was coming alive again just by telling the stories and reliving the glory. She was having too much fun I didn’t want her to stop. She kept that Blonde, Golden wig the entire time she was in California. In some pictures she would have it off and her natural hair would see the light of day, but not often. She always went back to the Golden wig. It was her sunshine, her happiness, and her success. But the Blonde wig didn’t last forever, and neither did the glowing smile. It faded with the years.

It just couldn’t last forever. 

She said, as the glow in her eyes turned into a somber fire and the beaming smile into disappointment. 

I had my fun and I lived my dream but the castings got younger and I was just getting older. The money in my pocket was not growing as fast as the pile of bills were, and the wig was getting old. I won’t lie to you, I never gave up and I still haven’t. I got thrown out of the city, throw out by my better judgement and pure exhaustion with the whole thing. I still cry when I think about what I left. When I think about the plane ride home. I didn’t want to see a soul. Especially not your Grandfather, ugh and he was always at Stop and Shop whenever I was there he always... well thats a different story. But I didn’t want anyone to think I had failed. To know I had to come back to this town with out my Academy Award. 

As she spills out her emotions she catches a glimpse of the Fire Red, pixie cut wig across the room. Her mood changes, her spirits rise, her color is coming back into her face and the fire in her eyes is no longer somber.  

But know that your Grammy was a star, I still am and I didn’t fail. I left because I had better things to do you know. Who needs Hollywood anyway, it wasn’t my scene anymore, it was all washed up. I wouldn’t let this town see me dragging my feet or wallowing in my own self pity. Thats why right before the I flew back to Dartmouth I picked up that Red wig right there. It was my power, my pride, to remind me I still had that fire. No one couldn’t take their eyes off me when I came back home Sage. They loved it, I loved it. It was my fire. 

I looked over at the wig and that is exactly what it was. It was Fire Red, there was no way you could miss it. It was as spicy, bold and in your face and she was. There was no over looking my Grammy with hair like that. But then I took a closer look at the pictures. She still looked sad. The Fire Red hid it quiet well, it caught your attention so you couldn’t see the sadness in her eyes, but it was there. Her pride wouldn’t let it show all the way, the wig had once again become her mask. She wanted to be noticed, she wanted to be bold, she wanted eyes on her just as the camera’s had been years before. That was what it meant for her. 

While she continued to talk, I continued to stare at the wigs. At their meanings and what each of them symbolized for her. The color, the cut, the feel. How each strand of hair on that wig, at one point in her life, was the definition of who she was. Then I looked back at her as she stared at the pictures some more. Analyzing her natural, normal hair that she had now. I looked at her salt and pepper grey, ear length bob . Her straight across bangs. What did this symbolize? What did this mean for her? Why does she keep the wigs on such pedestals to look at? Did she enjoy reliving that moment in her life whenever she puts those wigs back on?  My initial questions had just opened a can of worms. A can of worms to my Grammys life and to her mind that I don’t think I will ever full understand; not until she writes her auto biography of course. But still... I asked. 

Why you say? Why did I never get a wig after the Red pixie one. Well I am all natural now. Haven’t you heard salt and pepper is in, it is in all the magazines. I saw pictures of Meryl Strep grey and wearing it quiet well.

She laughs, looks over at the wigs one last time and then back at me.

They are just colors, Sage. Just masked and facades, reasons and excuses, definitions of dreams and disappointment. They are not who I was or who I am. Just how I was feeling, what I was experiencing. Just my past. They are like these old pictures right here. They were how I wanted to be projected onto the world, how I wanted to be seen. And I didn’t see that for so long. That is why I still have them and still put them on every once in a while, just for fun. They remind me of who I was and who I have become. But mostly they remind me that I can never again hide behind their colors. And besides, I think I shine quiet beautifully all on my own, don’t you think! 

And shine she did. 

A Bedtime Story 

Fell asleep with stains, 

woken up by questions,

confused by the fact of the matter.

Doe eyed and feeble.

Who are you? Where am I? What is this?

Blood. 

The pulsing of the room hides a mother’s cry,

A father’s disappointment.

The fury has passed and the fear alive

in both of their eyes.

Where were you?  What were you thinking? How did this happen?

More Blood. 

Cold hands everywhere, 

touching and probing and judging.

A subtle scream as the needle takes hold,

searching for sympathy. 

What have I done? How can I fix this? Is this a dream?

Tears. 

Reality replaces the needle,

It’s harsh and hopeless.

The room filters out and the pain

sets in. 

Are you okay? How did it feel? Did the pavement hurt? 

Yes it hurts. It will all hurt. 

It will hurt when the car is confirmed totaled 

when the accident is in the papers. 

When the blood results come in

and when I am found guilty. 

It will hurt in court when I feel eyes burning through me

when they all judge me. 

Yes it all hurts. 

But for now I wish to sleep

and let the scar tell the story.