Wigged Out

Never missing the opportunity to rummage around thrift stores and unique costume shops in the Land of The Retired, I venture out into the thickening air of the Florida afternoon. Fortune has its way of seeking out the willing and I stumble unexpectedly into the mega store of wigs. Like a moth to the flame I went into zombie shopping mode. An enormous warehouse-size shop layered in rows and rows of shelves lined with coiffed manikin heads; infinite cases from floor to ceiling held every color hair, braids, curls, half wigs, tresses, costume pieces, extensions and jeweled accoutrements. Dazzled by selection overload, I narrow the first flight of quick-change artistry to about 15 realistic-looking wigs while eying at least 20 of the breathtaking fantasy ones.

The Korean owner brought over 3 that she determined I'd want to see, all of which made me look like a smiling Stepford wife serving orange juice to Anita Bryant – too clean cut for my theatrical, over-the-top style. When she realized I didn't want any of her chosen wigs she spread 5 fingers in front of my face and snapped, "Only try on 5 wigs!"

"What do you mean only try on 5 wigs?" I said numbly into the mirror as I removed the long, dripping black waves of Mariah Carey that fell across my confused expression.

"No more... only 5!" came the snarling, hairbrush-waving proprietor as she shook her finger at the tragically hip, red and blonde party that was now exploding out in all directions from my skull. I contemplated this latest image transformation, ignoring the fiery eyes of the Wigmaster, and decided it looked too much like a yard sale on my head.

"But why didn't you tell me that beforehand?” I firmly questioned as I put wig number 5 aside. I had only just begun. “I didn't like the first 3 that YOU brought over. I need to look around and see what I want to try on." I calmly tried reasoning with her as she grabbed the other 10 wigs in a huff and left to assist another customer seeking instant transformation.

A try-on limit in a store with thousands of tempting tresses, ballistic clip-ons and pony tails – I opt instead for sushi and sake next door to consider a strategy in gaining the woman's confidence enough to let me sample all the wigs I wanted. At the restaurant the sushi and beverage choices were just as overwhelming as the wigs but the waiter didn't limit my choices to just 5 – so I order schools of fish and a paddy of rice sake.

The next day I return to hair heaven with my camera, notebook and mother in tow... “Can I take photos of the wigs and store?”

“NO! No take pictures of wigs because then you go and get style!” her finger wagged fitfully, shaking at everything.

“Get style... you mean steal the design? And then do what... make my own wigs?” I mused.

“No, you go to hair dresser and get style on your hair. You only use wig and not buy,” she scowled. So... that was it. The reasoning behind the 5-wig limit. People come in to try on the different styles before visiting their favorite salon, wasting time, trashing the merchandise and annoying the Wigmaster. Her limit and demands suddenly appear rational and fair.

“No... I want to write a story. I don't want photos of me in wigs, I want photos of YOU and all the pretty things in your store for a magazine story,” I excitedly explain. “And I want to buy some wigs.”

She suspiciously scopes out my awkwardly smiling mom and my camera, to which I have intentionally attached every device possible, making it look larger than life professional.

“Ohhhh!” She laughingly concedes as the smile spreads across her fine-featured face, “Ok, but no picture of me!” She was far more amenable now. If I happened to glance sideways at any wig she'd bring it over in 5 different colors – especially after I set several on the checkout counter.

Mom tactfully questions, “You want a green fairy wig, a platinum fall, a clip of... what is that? Charo's locks? And you absolutely need a half black, half white Cruella de Ville AND that Mariah Carey one too? What could you possibly use all of them for in that small mountain town?” Trying to explain why I had to have an extra closet specially built just to accommodate my costumes was hard enough but describing all the distinctively Crested Butte celebrations that needed high theatrics – from The Red Lady Ball to Vinotok to the Black and White Ball – must have sounded lunatic. Later, I give my mother a dvd of the movie King of Hearts and tell her to consider it a reenacted historical documentary of Crested Butte from the late 60s to present.

“What was I thinking?” I demand of myself in the mirror. Sequestered in the Florida room to explore my new look, I toss the dark locks of Mariah Carey from my face realizing that in the harsh light of reality I look more like Joey Ramone. Which wig could I possibly wear on the plane for the return trip that wouldn't trigger Homeland Security and raise the airport's Federal Alert above Code Orange?

“It'll never fly...” I reason. I pack all the fluffed hairpieces into my checked luggage so the inspectors won't mistakenly think that I'm concealing some illicit identity, or part of some weird cult, or worse... trying to smuggle Tribbles.