Putting it about.

I've still not made my peace with the wig. I've moved it to the bathroom windowsill, given it a headband for company and stood my new wig brush beside it, but me and it are still a long way off being friends. We're sizing each other up. It's a Mexican stand-off every time I walk past the bathroom door.

But I'm not wearing it. I've not even put it on once today, instead opting to leave the flat to see NHS Wig Man wearing a baseball cap that's now too big and, frankly, makes me look a bit retarded. (The NHS wig was borderline albino, by the way. Suffice to say it's not on my bathroom windowsill.) My boss popped round for a cuppa this afternoon on the promise of a wig debut, but had to make do with a syrup on a stand. I feel bad – I should at least have given her a glimpse of the bald head by way of compensation. People want the good stuff, right? (Oh give over, of course you do – I would if the roles were reversed.) Okay then, new rule: from now on, I'm happy to show you the slaphead. I mean, sheesh, I've been flashing my non-tit all over the place, so what's a bit of baldness between friends?

What the hell is it, then, about my reluctance with the rug? You know I've had a mastectomy; I'm happy to show you the scars. You know I'm having chemo; I'm happy to show you the baldness. You know I've lost my hair, but I still won't let you see the wig? Fuck it. This is getting ridiculous. I'm putting it on.

[Excuse the short interlude here – it's a slippery little bugger but I'll get used to it.]

There. Done. I'm wearing it. I'm blogging in a wig. It doesn't feel that unusual actually. I dare say it's even comfy. And, okay, I admit it – it looks better on my head than it does on the stand. It still doesn't look like my old hair but, well, it's never bloody going to, is it? And I can throw all the broken-biscuit tantrums I want, but that's one thing that is never going to change. So I'd better get used to it. (Consider that my eureka moment. Can you hear the Hallelujah Chorus?)

So then, new rule number two: if I can't have my own hair, then I'm damn well going to have everyone else's. Consider this Wig 1 of a New Wig Army. I want a shelf of wigs like my shelf of shoes. I want a wig for weddings, a wig for work, a wig for shopping, a wig for the pub. (Actually, there's your answer to what I'd like for my birthday.) Starting from tomorrow, I'm going to be a wig slag. And what the hell. I've spent my whole life being monogamous to men and, pleased as I am to have done that, now's the time to have a bit of slutty fun with my headwear instead. Apparently I'm just not a love-the-wig-you're-with kind of girl.