Much hairdo about nothing.

I've spent years faffing with my hair. I've demanded impossibly high standards from it. (I'd better clarify that I'm talking post-school, by the way – 1990-1995 was a half-decade hair-mare. With that and the braces, it's amazing I ever got snogged.) I've blow-dried, straightened, sprayed, lacquered, highlighted, lowlighted... all in a quest for the perfect 'do. Newsreader hair, if you will. You know, the kind that stays straight when you want it to, with the parting and fringe always in the right place and none of those wispy strands that stick up, no matter how much serum you plaster on. (A mate of mine once interviewed Jennifer Aniston, by the way, and revealed that she has those same wispy bits. I'm assuming The Ostrogen Villainess has none.) And that's what we all want, right? That pristine, shiny, well-conditioned, weather-proof, always-looking-perfect kind of hair that just doesn't exist. Well, six o'clock news just in, people: perfect hair does exist. And I've got it. But it's not without its occasional drawbacks. 

This bank holiday was my Get Over Yourself And Show People The Wig weekend. And I think it's fair to say that it made an impressive debut. Sorry, they made an impressive debut. First up was Wig 2 for a picnic in the park (a choice I still don't understand, considering Wig 1 is my favourite). My future sis-in-law's hen do was this weekend and, from a lack of being able to stay standing for the Big Night Out (again, DAMN The Bullshit for messing with my social life), I instead showed my face for an hour at the pre-cocktails picnic. Well aware that twentysomething hens can be tough crowds, I had never felt more self-conscious. A feeling not helped by the fact that, as I tentatively walked towards the tiara-wearing group with my sunglasses perched on top of my head (because that look's got 'natural hair' written all over it, right?), I promptly got my aviators stuck in my wig and had to prise them out as surreptitiously as I could (ie, not very). Suffice to say, I chose not to wear my designated tiara after that.

That's what I mean by drawbacks: leave the wig alone, and it's perfect. But start to fiddle, and you've given the game away. And therein lies my problem. I'm a fiddler. The thing is, wigs are itchy. (All that 'surprisingly comfy' stuff I was spouting the other day apparently only applies for about twenty minutes. After that it's just plain irritating.) And when I've got an itch, I'll scratch it (I've never been a sidle-up-against-a-wall-to-scratch-your-bum kind of gal) which, these days, means my fringe can grow beyond my eyebrows in a matter of seconds, or my parting can magically move two inches to the right without the help of a comb. I might as well leave the label hanging out. I have GOT to learn to leave the wig alone. 

But, minor mishaps aside, it's been a successful hair-show thus far. Hen do, lunch with family, a cuppa with mates (the latter two wearing Wig 1)... my wedding day aside, I've never had so many compliments. And whether or not they're all blowing smoke up my ass, I don't care. Because I like the wigs and P likes the wigs (and I can always tell when he's blowing smoke up my ass) and, now I've got some confidence back, it's made me feel happier than I have in ages. It doesn't make wearing a wig any better than having real hair, mind. But, for the meantime, it's a bloody good second best. I wonder whether, when it grows back, I'll still sweat the small stuff about my hair? Like when it goes frizzy in the rain, or kinks at the back because I've missed a bit with my straighteners. I hope so – I'd hate to turn all cancer-survivor-zen and refuse to get wound up by the little things. I'm going to milk the hell out of having a cold for the same reason.

I've acquired a Wig 3 now, too. My lovely, almost-makes-me-forget-I've-got-cancer friend Busby (who wishes to be played by Stephen Hawking in the film, by the way, having been previously been described in this blog as 'genius') came over yesterday afternoon, having just returned from a trip to Edinburgh. And she brought with her a brilliant gift: a novelty tartan hat with a mass of ginger felt hair attached. It quite suits me, actually. Newsreader hair it ain't (well, GMTV might let it pass) but the good news is I'd be hard pushed to get my sunglasses caught in this one. Which makes it a very natural-looking choice. (And, judging by the look of my few remaining pubes, the ginger hair could be terrifyingly close to the truth.)