If you had told me a year ago that I’d become dependent on something – so much so that I possibly couldn’t live my life the way I have been the past year, without it, I think I’d have said you were mad. But I have, you see, become utterly reliant.
I had my pick of course. A whole wall of desirable fits. Black ones, brown ones, ginger ones, hairy ones, sleek ones, but I chose Bob and we’ve been inseparable ever since. I won’t go as far as saying it was love at first sight but it certainly was … you’ll do nicely!
We are involved – personally – intimately you could say! Now I know what you are thinking. Why is this one gushing about a Bob but it’s not what you think!
If you had told me last year that my number one possession was a golden periwig in the style of a long bob, I’d have said please… more chance of a man named Bob sweeping me off my feet! (And I’m already married and he’d not called Bob!)
But this mane of blonde locks is the first thing that I reach for in the morning and the last thing I take off at night. We have a symbiosis – wiggy and I; it needs a head to feel valued and I need it to feel myself.
It began last February – the hair loss that is. Strand after strand eluded me.
There was no time for tears. With a four year old at home and regular dates with the poison drip in my diary, there could only be one way of avoiding having the big C conversation – concealment.
Now, I’m not endorsing deception but wiggy and I have played a blinder. The child hasn’t suspected a thing. I dropped her off at montessori one Spring morning with my usual look, wild and untamed peroxide blonde hair, and returned with a sleek bob. ‘Mammy, I like what the hairdresser did!’ Thanks I reply.
If only she knew I looked like Sinéad O’Connor underneath – and I should clarify – the older year’s version.
We have come close to getting caught, wiggy and I – a few close shaves. One sunny Friday, my husband collected my daughter from creche early and came home, much to my horror. I was catching some vitamin D out the back – with a turban on my head. I didn’t hear the car. Then the text message informing me they were enroute came through. The only problem was that I could clearly see it had been sent ten minutes before. I leapt up out of my chair and made a dash to the back door. Wiggy was perched like a cat on my bed!
From behind the door panel, I could hear my daughter’s little voice asking where mammy was. I held the handle – pretending it was stuck. ‘Daddy, I can’t get out,’ she shouted. I let it go and sprinted around the house and in through the front door and up the stairs, falling on a few steps and praying to God that she’d not bound through the door and find me in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.
Phew! Like a cat with nine lives, I survived!
There were a few other close calls too, like on holidays in the pool, when the wave pool splashed her and she pulled on my swim cap to wipe her eyes. She may never know why I went off like Krakatoa.
She’s asked a few sticky questions too like why is my hair hard? Like her Barbie Dolls. If only, I was like her Barbie Doll…. Barbie’s mother perhaps! I need some conditioner I say, and inside I sob.
Not to mention the heat! Boy does it get it hot! They talk about love as a flame – ours is an inferno, especially in warm weather, crowded rooms, after exercise, stuffy cars and under caps on windy days. Like any good relationship, sometimes there’s too much heat. Sometimes, Wiggy and I need a break from one another. Liberation is a sweet release.
So, here’s my Ode to Bob – my coveted wiggy. We have had some adventures together but just as passion fades, soon I’ll hang you up, hopefully for good and I’ll tell the child that the hairdresser decided to give me a new style…. Silver pixie perhaps?
