I procrastinate. The day my hairdresser, Miriam, left for a 2-week vacation in Utah is the day I noticed I had rapidly gone from Honey Blond to Gluttonous Gray.
I could not afford to fly to Salt Lake City for a root job and I could not go to another hairdresser because Miriam is also a longtime, close friend and it would have been like committing adultery. As it says in the Bible, getting it on with another beautician is a grievous sin.
So, I dug through the back of my closet and found the wigs that I bought long ago and have never worn because, well, because I’m paranoid that everyone is staring at me because they know I’m wearing a wig.
Wearing a wig, face mask and sunglasses comes in handy when running errands in flannel pajama bottoms and an old, paint-stained T-shirt. That’s when I always run into the immaculately-dressed and exquisitely made-up former co-worker who wants to stop and chat about her very accomplished children and her very accomplished life. As. Opposed. To. My. Very. Unaccomplished. And. Dreary. Life.
But, she passed by the wiggy-me without a hint of recognition. Hallelujah! Why have I been wasting my life wearing my own hair and exposing my lips and eyes?
When I donned the auburn, long-haired wig and ventured into the city to shop, I was Venturous Viv and a completely different person from Virtuous Viv, the highlighted brunette who browsed the non-fiction section in my small town library.
I discovered I was more suited to work in a soup kitchen as a brunette, but as a curly-headed blond, I was more likely to lead a protest against the state legislators’ attempt to eliminate Indiana’s wetlands.
The inky, black bob with fringed bangs gave me absolute super powers. I became Vamp Viv. My husband ran into my bad self in the frozen food section of a local supermarket and was especially attentive before I hit him over the head with a 10-pound bag of rock-solid chicken legs.
Wearing that same wig, I was able to morph into Vindictive Viv and deal with a jerk behind me at the stoplight who always hauls a gigantic confederate flag in the bed of his truck. You know the type — the guy who starts yelling obscenities at the car in front of him because that driver doesn’t rev the engine and take off the second the light turns green. So, with a flip of my dark locks and fringed bangs — and my middle finger — I exerted my extraordinary powers, locked the doors, turned up the radio and calmly sat through the light one more time. I peeled out just as he was preparing to stab me with the Rebel flagpole.
Maybe you’re thinking “mental illness,” but except for the Yankee-Wanna-Be-Confederate guy, I’ve had nothing but good experiences. And — bonus!— these six new, enthusiastic women in my life have expressed an interest in joining my Prosaic Procrastinators writer’s group.