Last Thursday

Praise Jesus, my computer has been returned, fully functioning, to me!

Tomorrow I will be distressed by how adrift I became when the computer went defunct. That is evidence of a kind of dependency that’s alarming, really. Tonight, though, I’m just happy it’s back!

My recipes and menus in MacJournal, returned to me. My calendar in large view, returned to me. My journals, returned to me. My 17-inch screen, returned to me. My internet bookmarks and cookies and setup, returned to me. I've gathered a glass of mineral tea, my warmest robe, a blanket, and three cookbooks, and headed to the easy chair. In the golden light of the lamp, I feel like I’ve stumbled across an oasis.

Time to get you all caught up.

Last Thursday, I went to the dentist, which was unremarkable in the usual, wonderful ways. I like to just space out and do what I’m told for a thirty-minute stretch. I adore the feeling afterwards of glossy clean teeth. And I get a kick out of the way the dental staff admiringly talk amongst themselves about my x-rays. I don’t have perfect teeth, but I have extremely good un-doctored teeth, great teeth for having had no work done (this is known as “good genes” in some offices). Ironically, dental professionals appear to get off on the lack of intervention in my mouth, and they’ll call over their colleagues, so they too can have a look and a wistful murmur about my ideal spacing, my lack of cavities. I take some pleasure in this, I’ll admit.

All the usual good stuff happened at last Thursday’s check-up, but there was one wrinkle that was unusual: I wore a wig. Specifically, I wore the black, pixie-cut wig that I’ve had for about twenty-five years, having stolen it as a child from the collection of Mom, who had owned it since the sixties, when ladies apparently just rolled like that. It is my favorite (of my two) wigs, and it is the preferred short-hair wig. (That’s a joke - I have only the one short-hair wig.) It is also the more realistic-looking of my two wigs.

I felt very cute when I entered the dental office and greeted the receptionists. I felt fine as I introduced myself to the new hygienist who’d be cleaning my teeth. I started to feel a little funny as I thought about how very close and well-lit this hygienist’s experience of my head was about to be, and wondered if she’d be able to see the netting of my ratty old headpiece. I decided that if she did notice, she’d be a lady about it, and I comforted myself that I had nothing to worry about. About the hygienist’s discretion, I was right: if she noticed anything especially yak-hair about my wig, she said nothing.

Then entered the dentist proper. And immediately she exclaimed, “Oh what a cute haircut!”

If she had said, “Your hair looks so cute,” I wouldn’t have perceived there to be a moral quandry. It’s my wig, and it does look cute. That’s all accurate.

But she inferred haircut. It’s not a haircut. It’s a wig.

I wanted to own up to the wig, I did want to. I really wouldn’t have minded coming clean to just the dentist and the hygenist. But this dental office is like a hair salon: a row of chairs in one semi-open room. Even though probably no one was paying attention, I felt too self-conscious to announce to the whole room that I was wearing auxiliary hair.

I muttered something noncommittal like, “Oh, well, not really, thanks, though...” hoping she’d drop it.

But no. She went on, “It’s a big change, isn’t it? Your hair was pretty long.”

She gets points for accuracy in observation. I’m in there twice a year, tops, and I hardly ever wear my hair “down” for something like a dental check-up, plus my kinky-curly hair doesn’t read as “long” to most straight-haired people like herself even when it is “down”. So, good on you, Sherlock. I honestly had not thought anyone in that office would notice.

In the end, I didn’t confess. I just muttered some more, and blushed, and was awkward until she finished with me and I left.

I intend to wear wigs more often, I think. But if part of the fun for me is going from one look to another with reckless abandon, I’m going to have to craft some responses for occasions like these. I could be funny, I could be ridiculous, I could be mysterious, I could be forthright, I could be evasive. But I don’t want to walk away feeling dishonest.

It makes the wig self-conscious.