The world of wigs is a strange yet wonderful one. Having gone without for more than 15 years (after losing my hair when I was seven), the past four years have been filled with plenty of follicle-related festivities.
Wigs, as it turns out, don't have to look like wigs. Wigs, if you know where to get them (and I know some people that know some people that sell some really good-quality hair pieces) can be great fun. One of my favourite parts of choosing which styles to go with next (and I go through a lot) is reading the names that come attached to each one.
Candi, in case you were wondering, is a short bob; whereas Stevie (which I like to think is named after Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac) comes down to your waist. Going to the hairdresser is still an exciting experience, as is first lifting a wig out of its packaging, not one shiny hair out of place.
I can't say I didn't feel a bit smug walking through Glasgow airport in November, knowing the longing looks my newly bought, newly cut auburn number attracted. Nor can I say it's not exciting seeing the looks on friends' faces when I come into work with an entirely different style; or that it's not just that little bit amusing to see the puzzled looks from other colleagues, wondering why that odd girl keeps changing her hair so drastically.
The first wigs I ever got, from my well-meaning but stylishly challenged parents, were two of the most horrid-looking things you could imagine. I must have been about 13 at the time, a tough transitional age for most young teens, and an age where my parents thought that wearing a wig would make things easier.
Well, maybe they would have been, had the wigs not looked like a drowned rat (an odd greyish black mess) and a cheap copy of the haircut Mia Farrow sported in Rosemary's Baby. Needless to say, the harrowing experience of having to sport both of them - albeit not for long, given that I threw some pretty impressive tantrums - resulted in my refusal to wear anything for the best part of a decade.
I firmly believe that no hair is better than bad hair. I dearly love my grandmother, who constantly tells me that if she could, she would give me her hair. A kind gesture, indeed, but one that I cannot - and will not - take up. Somehow, I don't think a grey perm, with a hint of purple rinse, is really my thing.
But maybe my gran and I have more in common than I think. Asking the opinion of the kindly shopkeeper around the corner from work last week, about my new shorter style, he studied me for a while, weighing up his decision. "You look nice," he said, "but it looks like something my grandmother would choose."
Maybe next year, I'll go for a mohawk.
