Odd Days: The Wig

I decided to wear a wig when I traveled to Columbus yesterday. I didn't want to traumatize my sister any more than she's already traumatized. And to be honest, I didn't want to traumatize any of my fellow travelers either.

But then it gradually dawned on me that I was the one most likely to be traumatized. What if my wig came off at an inopportune time? I started thinking about Andre Agassi whose life was essentially ruined by worry over whether or not his wig would come off during a match.

I can relate. I started worrying the night before. What if the wig has pieces of metal woven into the synthetic strands and I set off the metal detector. And what if the TSA person looks at me and says, "Take off that wig and go through again." But even if I make it through the metal detector, what if I knock the wig off while struggling to get my roller bag into the overhead bin. I've had some epic struggles with my bag that have ruined more than one hairdo.

Of course, none of those things happened yesterday, but something weird did happen. As we started our descent into Columbus, I began stewing about getting my bag out of the bin without dropping it onto my wig. Then through the fog of my stress I hear, "Ma'am, MA'AM! Are you all right?" I turn to the young woman on my right who is peering at me with some concern. I told her I was fine, but then I reached up, grabbed my wig and asked, "Why, do I look weird or something?" I just knew it had something to do with the wig. "Well," she said, "you were making some strange noises. I guess you're like me. I don't like flying either." Strange noises? What the hell?

I couldn't wait to get off of that plane. Got my bag. Wig stayed in place. Whew. Went to baggage claim and found my sister waving cheerfully. She took one look at me and said, "Oh, I like your hair. New style?"