My sister, a year younger than me, visited a while ago,
bringing with her a change of hair--that is to say, a wig. She
wore it only toward the end of her visit, and then only after
warning us that she was going to look different. The wig was
shockingly like one I own, a dark brown page. We talked a little
about the wig while doing the dishes. I told her I thought I
understood the impulse to change one's appearance, the fun of
seeing a different reflection in the mirror from what one is used
to. It was a moment of sharing--though I didn't tell her I owned a
wig very like hers, nor that I enjoyed changing in an even more
radical way, how seeing myself as a woman made me feel womanly,
and how this feeling was so important to cultivate, explore.
Months later, remembering
this conversation, I decided to change my hair color, and placed my order for a golden
red wig. This color is somewhat similar to the color my sister has
been dying her hair for the last five or six years. My spouse noted
the fact immediately, asking if it had been my intention. It had
not, of course. It was the fun of the experiment that appealed to
me, the pleasure of a new image--surely any woman would
understand?