18 years ago, as a newly-diagnosed Non-hodgkin's lymphoma patient, I sat in the lobby of a beauty salon and fought back the tears. The ad in the phone book called the place a wig specialty center, but even to me, a 19-year old college sophomore, something in the advertising was totally wrong. For my consultation, I was placed in the salon's lobby in full view of all the "normal" clients. My straight, shoulder-length, almost black hair had just begun to fall out a couple of days before, so I was understandably self-conscious. Then the attendant brought out a tiny mirror and several wigs, all curly and short, with medium to light brown hair.
Before I could ask questions about differences of style and color, she disappeared to leave my mom and me alone with the wigs. I tried one or two on, not knowing what to do with my remaining hair, feeling like a clown. After unsuccessful attempts to get them on properly, I noticed the attendant making a bee-line for us, drawing the attention of everyone else in the shop. She seemed almost haughty as she helped. She let me know immediately that there were no other styles, and that I'd better just go on and make up my mind.
I pulled off the wig I was trying on and tried not to cry. I told my mom I needed more time to think about it, and we left. I remember walking out the door hoping that the chemo wouldn't take all of my hair. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case, and I soon realized that I needed to think about wigs again. It was also November, and I was starting to lose a lot of heat through my head. My mom found the name of another salon, and I promised myself I'd at least give it a chance. I'm glad did.
Inside the salon, wig clients were shown to a totally separate and private room with large mirrors at different angles for better viewing. There were over a hundred wigs to try on, hair samples for perfect matching, and gobs of magazines with so many different styles I thought I was in wig heaven. Best of all, the attendant stayed with us through the entire session, answered every question we had, and educated us about every aspect of wig care. The result was a wig that looked so much like my own hair many people didn't know I wore one. A couple of people asked if I had gotten a trim, but were surprised when they later found out the truth.
I never laughed so hard as I did several years and wig-styles later. It was April, and I was teaching at a local high school. The chemo had stopped (FINALLY!!!) that February, and my hair had begun to grow back in. When the hair was about 3/4 of an inch long, I decided that my wig days were over. The first day sans-wig at school, one boy stared, wide-eyed. "Cool," he said, "I've got a punk teacher!" Throughout the whole year, he'd had no idea.