Sex and Suburbia, The Not-So-Secret Secret

Sex and Suburbia, The Not-So-Secret Secret
By Julie Stankowski

I’m very open about it. In fact, I tell everyone. The moms in preschool, the moms in elementary school, the rabbi, the neighbors, the grocery store clerk . . . I tell anyone and everyone who comments. I have a new fashion accessory. This accessory has become my new addiction. I just can’t get enough. I have many different styles and colors (more than I care to admit). Each day, I decide what mood I’m in (well, actually, the Hormone Monsters decide what mood I’m in, but that is a whole other story coming in another post) and I choose the perfect accessory to match the mood. Who should I be today? Roxanna, Danielle, Ginger or Faye (my personal favorite)? Just as some women can’t get enough Jimmy Choos, I can’t get enough wigs!

Okay, please don’t judge me or think I’m crazy (I am crazy, but in a normal crazy kind of way). And NO, THANK GOD, POO, POO, POO, KAYNAHORAH, I am not sick (at least not physically, mentally is up for debate).

So here are (the not-so-juicy) details about how I happened into the wonderful world of wigs. For most of my life, I had great, thick long hair (dark brown since law school when I couldn’t afford to color it any more) that I really liked (an absolute pain in the ass to blow dry and straighten, but totally worth it). About 3 and a half years ago, six months after my son was born, I started losing a lot of hair. Normal after having a baby, but it never stopped. It was raining hair in my house. Raining men: good. Raining hair: not so good. To make a long story short (as short as someone with chronic oral diarrhea can possibly make it), I felt like my thick hair had become as thin as a wafer cookie. I hate wafer cookies! Anyway, most people didn’t notice, but I was extremely self-conscious about it. So, I went to a wig store to buy those really expensive “real” hair clip-in extensions and then took them to the really expensive hair dresser so they would match my color perfectly. Okay, way too high maintenance, even for me. Back to the wig store - - didn’t know what I wanted to do about it, but ended up leaving the store wearing Mandy, a long dark brown wig that looked exactly like my hair. When I got home, my husband said, “Your hair looks great! Did you go to the hairdresser today?” And he was only standing a few feet away from me! My best friends said the same thing. Nobody had any idea it wasn’t my hair until I told them! I was shocked! They were shocked!

Well, what began as something I was totally freaking out about became something frivolously fabulous! By the way, no one could ever figure out why I lost so much hair (I think I now know every doctor in the state), but I’m happy to report that my hair is nice and healthy again! So that means no need for wigs, right? Wrong!

You have no idea how great wigs are! After Mandy, I bought Ginger, a very stylish and sexy bob, shorter than I would ever dream of cutting my own hair. The first time I wore Ginger in public, I got soooo many compliments; it was unbelievable. But I didn’t want to wear it all the time and my own hair was long. What to do? Tell people that I was wearing a wig. I’m too old to care (pretty much) what people think. Again though, nobody could believe it. I was asked who my hairdresser was more times than my kids scream, “Mommmmm” in a 24-hour period. I took “her,” as the wig store people refer to the “girls,” to Cabo on vacation. Who has to worry about humidity now??? Not me! My hair (well, Ginger) looked perfect every night.

I think it is the Carrie Bradshaw in me that has me hooked. Gotta be fresh and fun and stylish and sexy. I even bought a long blonde wig one day (think Jessica Simpson). The problem with that though, was my husband’s concern that if I wore it out with him, people would not recognize me and the rumor mill would fill up with stories about how people saw my husband out and about with some blonde! All of my other wigs, though, look like they could be my very own hair. And I think it’s fun for my husband. He never knows who he will come home to or go to bed with! How Sex and the City of me!

So now, when the Hormone Monsters strike, I can decide between my plethora of wigs or my now healthy real hair. Did I get up early enough (remember, I don’t play Name that Minute anymore!) to blow dry and iron my own hair or should I plop on a wig? It’s so fun. And a major topic of conversation. People stop me and ask, “Who are you wearing?” as if I were walking the red carpet. And every day, at least one person looks at me and asks if it’s my hair or a wig. “I can’t tell anymore,” they say with a look of sheer surprise. I have friends who ask me to go to their hairdressers with them so they can cut their hair exactly like a particular wig. And if you can believe this, I actually started a trend! I have five friends who have actually bought wigs too! But they don’t tell the world like I do, so I will keep their identities secret. You know all of the moms who are having clothing parties at their houses? Well, I think I should have a wig party! I’ll send invites entitled “Wigs and Wine!” Woo-Hoo!

And today, my daughter’s (totally adorable) teacher asked me if I had a room full of bald-headed mannequins wearing wigs. Noooo! That would be scary and creepy and weird. Noooo! Even I’m not that weird. “My wigs are in shoe boxes,” I told the teacher (with a few other moms around participating in the crazy wig conversation that seems to take place on a daily basis). We crack up about it all the time. And then I shocked the totally adorable teacher when I said that Mandy was in a Hello Kitty shoe box and Ginger was in a Spiderman shoe box and Faye (appropriately) was in a Hannah Montana shoe box. “No way!” she said laughing. “I thought for sure they’d be in Manolo Blahnik boxes all neatly lined up like a Barney’s display.” Well, bottom line, it would be fiscally irresponsible (and potentially pose a health risk to my husband, and in turn to me, upon the arrival of the AmEx bill) if I were to combine my wig addiction with a designer shoe addiction. And as much as I love Christian Louboutins, I love my “girls” more, at least for right now. Tomorrow who knows; I’m very fickle with my accessories. But today, I hope the “girls” are happy living in their Target bought kids’ shoe boxes.

And there you have it. The Not-So-Secret Secret!

P.S. The Hormone Monsters are real! And they will be highlighted in future posts! I don’t want to piss them off!