There’s nothing we can do, your hair may grow back or it may not.” He continued to pick through my scalp, assessing the situation. To have a man examining my head when I felt so ugly was utterly humiliating. He then, with no word of warning, informed me that wigs were available on the NHS. He took out his pen and wrote me a prescription for one. A wig? I sat frozen to the chair in disbelief and total shock. I had gone to the hospital expecting a magic wand and a new head of hair – and definitely not the acrylic variety. Even the word ‘wig’ was ridiculous. (Until that moment I didn’t think it possible that I could sink any lower. It appeared that there was a level below rock bottom.)
I was told that I could either get a standard NHS wig from the hospital or I could use the voucher towards the cost of a wig ‘from the market’ in Truro, where the proprietor apparently had a good reputation for helping people just like me. I stood sobbing, wishing for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Hysterically, I refused to leave the room, demanding the doctor explore other avenues. He simply looked at me as if I was an irritating inconvenience. My husband eventually dragged me out and convinced me to go to the market, reminding me that it seemed to be my only solution.
Reluctantly, I allowed him to drive me into the city. In my mind, I kept questioning why they would sell wigs for people like me in a market. We parked the car and headed over, and to my horror, came across the wig stall which actually wasn’t just a wig stall: it appeared to sell fancy dress items too. I looked at the hair pieces in shock. It seemed that there was a lovely black and white Cruella-de-Vil number, an Elvis ‘quiff’, and various different brightly coloured afros. I wanted to run as fast as possible, as far as possible, as soon as possible, in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, the stallholder had already noticed us looking and asked if he could help. Rather than say, “Your wigs are shit and there is not a hope in hell of me putting one of those on my head,” I remained silently stricken, frozen with horror as my husband explained that we had come with a prescription. All around me seemed to blur and I prayed to disappear. The stallholder looked at my husband with confusion on his face. He then looked at me and quietly and very discreetly whispered that we were in the wrong place. Phew bloody phew.
Feeling rather embarrassed, we eventually discovered the wig stall and a lovely lady called Therase, who was to become a rock for me over the next 14 years. Therase was obviously used to dealing with people ‘just like me’, and she didn’t question or give me sympathy, which was refreshing. She made me feel normal. Therase was happy and upbeat and began showing me her wigs. I began to smile as I tried on a blonde bob, a long, wavy redhead, and a short brown crop. The stall itself was very exposed, and the only place to try them on was in full view in front of all of the people doing their shopping. But Therase’s warmth and smile soon put me at ease, and her ability to swiftly replace one wig with another without revealing my bald head was impressive! The little glint in my husband’s eye began to amuse me. It was beginning to dawn on him that he could have a redhead or a blonde any time he liked.
CHANGING ROOM TIP
Weaken The Glue And Remember You
Therase’s straightforward and very helpful approach allowed me time to separate myself from my condition. For weeks I had been wrapped up in negative thoughts, so much so that it felt as if alopecia had enveloped my whole being, and not just my head. The feeling became so strong that I almost viewed myself as a bald head on legs, the rest of me disappearing into insignificance. Therase’s upbeat ‘here’s where we are at, let’s find a solution together’ approach allowed me to disassociate from my condition and recognise that it wasn’t part of me, just something that was happening to me.
It’s very easy when going through personal challenge to let it permeate our identity. We seek sympathy, wanting others to feel our pain and understand. Repetitive sympathy and a ‘poor you’ approach however can act as glue, bonding us with our problems. The more glue, the stronger the bond which then strengthens the connection between our adversity and our identity. We feel as if the problem becomes part of who we are.
Understand right now that your challenges are not part of you, and they never will be. You will never be ‘divorce’, ‘anxiety’ or ‘bereavement’. You will always be you, just experiencing divorce, anxiety or bereavement. Allow yourself to detach from your negative thoughts and loosen the glue by seeking a ‘sympathy free’ day or week. Spend time around people who can easily talk about other things, or those with a solution-focused approach. Remove yourself from sympathy as often as possible, so that you remind yourself that your adversity is not your identity. It’s far easier to move through and leave it behind if we feel it’s not part of who we are. Weaken the glue and remember you.
I left with a long, mid-brown bob on my head, which felt weird, strange and itchy, but it looked a hell of a lot better than my egg head. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t too scared to walk out onto the streets. Realising within just a few minutes that the fringe was attempting to destroy the contact lenses in my eyes, I summoned up the courage to walk into a nearby hairdresser and explained the situation. The hairdresser looked a little flustered and did her best to cover up her pity. She smiled awkwardly and invited me to leave the wig to be trimmed so that I could pick it up later in the day. The thought of walking out onto the street bald again when I’d found some relief was unbearable, so we went elsewhere. Having a wig cut felt humiliating, and the silence in the salon suggested that a wig trim wasn’t a frequent request; the staff seemed unsure of how to act or be around a wig wearer. I’ve never seen three hairdressers simultaneously grab long brushes and, with eyes down, start sweeping the floor. Trying to ignore their reaction, I sat silently willing the hairdresser to stop tugging the wig with her comb. I couldn’t bear the thought of it being pulled off. Minutes later, fringe trimmed and able to see, I stepped out once more. I became aware of a tiny lightness in my heart. I didn’t feel like such a misfit.
(I am aware that this may seem indulgent and inappropriate. I know that ‘what’s on the inside is what counts’, but it really did feel that as the roots of my hair disappeared, so did the roots of my identity. Previously, I’d thought that as long as you were happy inside, nothing else mattered, which in many ways is true. It’s also true however that everything is interconnected. If having a cut and blow dry or getting your nails painted makes you feel good, then make it a regular treat! This is why you will find me at the nail salon every three weeks having my hands pampered. If it makes you feel good, do it. Just don’t rely on it for permanent happiness!)
Over the next few days, I continued to spend a lot of time at home. I still felt crippled inside but I also felt a glimmer of hope; the darkness didn’t seem quite so dark. I would stand and look at myself in the mirror, first with my wig on and then without, hoping for a sign, or an indication of who I was. I stared intensely, deep into my own eyes begging for a clue with a heavy heart, but to no avail.
One of my early wig-wearing days out in public involved taking my daughter to pre-school. I remember walking into the playground, trying to act normally but feeling as if I stuck out like a sore thumb. Trying to overcome these feelings, I made the effort to initiate conversations. Many just didn’t know what to say, and found it easier to turn their back on me, rather than talk and have to look me in the eye. On many occasions, I found myself isolated and alone. I tried convincing myself that I wasn’t being ignored, and that it was all in my head, but deep down I knew: people felt awkward around me. My true friends soon made themselves known. They were the ones that continued to talk to me just like they always had, and treat me as they had always done, which was a huge relief. And on one particular day ‘wig wearing in public’ I met the ‘amazing lady’, a total stranger who approached me and told me that she thought my hair looked stunning. She said that she would love hair just like it. I didn’t know this woman, I’d seen her only occasionally whilst walking through the school gates, but on that day she gave me two huge gifts. The first was a much-needed confidence boost, and the second was the gift of knowledge; the knowledge that just taking a few moments to compliment someone can literally change their day. (Have you ever been on the receiving end of an unexpected compliment? If so, you will understand.)
Shortly after this, one of my close friends invited me to a party at her house. At this time none of these friends had seen the new ‘wig-wearing Maria’. To say that I was apprehensive of their reaction was an understatement.