Laundry Room Letters: Part Two

WIG WARS

The wig

Her opponent entered the arena, swathed in plastic, cradled in the hand of an attendant, three weeks prior.  She waited in anticipation, praying to the dearest God that it be easily tamed.  Not knowing what to expect, she braced herself as it revealed its frizzed glory.

Synthetic curls. How she loathes thee. How she fears thee.

Her experience with such curls has been mostly self-taught, all her tactics derived intuitively on her trip down Grand Stream.  Only, those curls were feminine, soft, rarely handled.  They acquiesced to her touch, becoming a friendly sparring partner rather than a full-blown enemy.  That hairpiece curled when coaxed, smoothed when sweet talked, and held form when forced.

This wigcap full of synthetic, long, dark ringlets mocks her from its perch.  It throws itself to the floor, over and over, mussing itself beyond recognition.  The curls balloon at the slightest touch or increase in humidity.  And these plastic strands tangle and tangle until they deteeth her only weapon: a comb.

I tamed the beast!

Gentleness is not an option.  The time has come. The wig has reached an atrocious point of frizziness.  Armed with only a comb, an unplugged curling iron (as the only curling apparatus in her artillery), an iron, and a blow dryer.  

Between heat, steam, and lots of pulling and swearing, the beast is tamed.  The curls gleam, and possibly look better than when it entered.  Our heroine might have developed carpal tunnel in the two-hour battle, but that’s another matter altogether.

Moral of the story: sometimes working wardrobe means teaching yourself new skills, such as maintaining synthetic hair.  Learn by doing.  End up with a completely new and useful skill set.

Second moral of the story: get a better comb next time.