When I first met P, I hated him. I took his initial shyness as arrogance (I told a colleague he was 'practising to be a git') and did all I could to avoid him around the office. But that changed over the course of two nights. The first was a very VERY debauched house party at which I was introduced to absinthe and woke up the following morning draped over a boy on the kitchen floor (thankfully the boy in question was an understanding and equally absinthe-wrecked mate). Pre-debauchery, however, P turned up, despite neither of us moving in the same circles (one of those weird coincidences that never happens in London), so we were forced to speak to each other, and I was forced to concede (a bit) that my immediate impression of him had been wrong. The second was a work night out in which P allowed me to join in his game of arcade golf – an ice-breaker that saw us get progressively rat-arsed, to the point where he offered to accompany me home safely. And not just to the front door. See? Not such a git after all. (There may be a taking-advantage-of-a-drunken-girl argument here that supports my git theory, but I disagree. I was more than happy to be taken home by a tall, dark, handsome scouser and, anyway, leaving him at the door would have been a waste of my pulling knickers.) My lengthy point, however, is that first impressions often mean squat. Anyone or anything that immediately impresses me makes me wary (and, believe me, it's a theory I've put to the test – and wished I hadn’t). I'm a big believer in the slow burn.
And, true to form, the same has happened on the wig front. From hating Wig 1 a matter of days ago, I’ve now come to really like it – and its new sister, Wig 2. I’m sticking with the numbering system, by the way, despite the fact that the wigs have names. Not names I’ve given them, you understand (although I heard from an ex-boss recently who told me about a brilliant naming system he and his wife devised to covertly ensure her wig looked good when they were out at a restaurant: ‘Have you seen Sharon recently? Is she well?’ Fantastic idea, and one I look forward to nicking – code name suggestions welcome). But anyway, all wigs have names already. Names to distinguish them from one anther in the catalogue and, my god, how brilliant they are. Wig 1’s name is Codi. Wig 2 is called Erika. (I wonder whether people switch from jobs in paint-naming to wig-naming?)
I bought Wig 2 (sorry, Erika) yesterday, from a different Wig Place to the last. This time, it wasn’t Wig Man or Wig Girl, but Camp-As-Christmas Wig Guy – the best of all the Wig Folk so far. He was ace: the perfect mix of a bloody good laugh, super-knowledgable and empathetic to the reason I was there in the first place. He even offered to shave my head to make the wigs fit better. I politely declined, instead opting to GI Jane it in my own time (this morning, as it happens – so much hair came out in the bath that P and I took the scissors to the lot of it. I’m now less Andy-from-Little-Britain, more Aryan army recruit. Call it Hitler Youth Chic). Camp-As-Christmas Wig Guy stuck rigidly to the wigs’ catalogue names throughout my appointment with him. ‘Samantha’s lovely; see the way she’s feathered around the face. Let’s try her and let’s take in Miranda too.’ (Disappointingly, there was no Carrie or Charlotte.) And, despite thinking I’d walk out with a long wig this time, I’ve still been unable to find one that doesn’t make me look like a member of the Mexico ’86 England squad. So Wig 2 is another bob. A longer one, though, with a slightly wispier fringe. And this time it’s Spring Honey, in comparison to Wig 1’s Creamy Toffee (see what I mean about the paint-naming thing?)
I’ve even been looking into Wig 3. This time I’ll be trying yet another different Wig Place (total hussy of a wig slag that I am), and I’ve already had a look at their wares online. I’m so excited. At this place, the wigs don’t have women’s names (do men’s wigs have men’s names, I wonder?), but instead brilliantly wanky titles like Emotion, Ecstasy and Rendezvous. I can see it now: ‘Endearing could really be your thing, but let’s try an Embrace too.’ There’s even one called Ominous. I mean, come on. Even if it wasn’t reminiscent of Dame Edna, who the hell would want a wig called Ominous? But my favourite by far is from the Delboy Trotter school of wig-naming: Tres Bien. Tres Bien! Now that could definitely work in a covert restaurant wig-checking situation. ‘C’est bon?’ ‘Tres Bien, Rodney, Tres Bien.’