About ten months, three hair dyes, 48 perms and three haircuts ago, I decided I wanted to cut my damaged hair off and regrow it in its natural state. As my hairdresser raised the scissors to my head, I shed a tear for my hair as it plummeted to the ground. Surprisingly, the more my hair piled up, the more excited I became. I had this vision of Halle Berry meets Anne Hathaway, and no one could tell me that my new short ‘do was not the bomb-dot-com. The stylist announced she was done and spun me around in my chair. As I looked up, I laid my eyes upon what looked like Samuel L. Jackson. Immediately, I thought this had to be a prank. OK, Ashton, you can come out now.
On top of it all, she had the audacity to tell me I looked good. “How do you like it?” she asked. I quickly responded with, “Is there anything else you can do?” She then proceeded to wash my hair. Some conditioner here, a little moose there and voila! I still looked like crap. I left the salon, and the whole ride home, my mom gave me the “It-looks-terrible” stare as she reassured me it did not look that bad. I went through two whole months feeling shy and insecure. Not only was my neck cold, but I also could not get used to having such little hair. Although my hair had grown since the dreadful chop, and it had even begun to grow on my mom, I was not convinced.
It was then that my mom and Tina entered my room. I looked jealously down at Tina and admired her luscious curls, slim frame and busty physique. She was the epitome of a man’s dream, and here she was, standing boldly in my room. I latched to her like a flea to dog. Tina was my wig. Yes, I said it. My wig. Also known as “Old Faithful.” Before I knew it, Tina and I were doing everything together. We went swimming and on dinner dates—and even the occasional Netflix binge. Her presence was building my confidence and providing protection all at once. When I was with Tina, I was no longer Roddia. I was fearless Tina Turner.
Tina was so faithful that she even helped me get through my first-day-on-the-new-job jitters. “You’ll be great,” Tina told me, lightly touching my cheek. Before I knew it, my third week of the job came, and my co-worker and I were sharing front desk stories. Leaning back in my chair, I began to tell her about an article I was writing for the school newspaper, when all of a sudden cool air ran across the center of my head. In disbelief, I reached up to find a Tina-less head. I quickly grabbed Tina up and put her back on my head, upside down and backwards, of course. Just then, the elevator door opened, and a swarm of employees approached the front desk. Still holding on to my wig, I greeted them all kindly. Holding my fake smile until the last person left to his destination, I turned and looked at my coworker. As she looked back at me, we both busted into uncontrollable laughter. Old Faithful had given up on me.
Maybe it was one too many all-nighters or workouts at the gym, but she spoke her last words without warning. I fixed her just enough so that she could survive the rest of my shift, but later that night, I put Tina to rest. “Here Lies Old Faithful, Friend, Confidant and Wig,” read her headstone.
My experience with wigs taught me that there’s nothing wrong with wanting to change your look. Everybody gets bored with their hair eventually. At first, that’s all Tina was—the opportunity for me to try a new look. But along the way, I forgot the best look of all: the natural me. Tina, may she rest in peace, was fun while she lasted, but I think it’s time I embrace my own hair, naps and all.
