Recently, I bought a wig. I’ve been threatening for years that I’m going to star wearing wigs–not all the time, just when I’m in a very particular mood I’ve come to identify as my wig-wearing mood–and just lately I’ve decided to prove that those threats, unlike my vows to quit smoking or stop blowing straight guys, weren’t empty.
Actually, I had a wig once before, a couple of years ago. I purchased it for Halloween; my costume was Andy Warhol. It had occurred to me then that any wig that resembled the self-altered ones Warhol sported during his lifetime would very likely be one I wouldn’t mind wearing in public as myself, but the one I got was cheap, purchased for twenty dollars at one of those costume stores that pop-up for a few weeks around Halloween and then shutter their business until next year, plus, it was advertised as an Andy Warhol wig and though it suited that purpose, I couldn’t really bring myself to wear it out of the house after the holiday had passed. I did enjoy wearing it at home several times, experimenting with style and pairing it with different outfits and taking selfies. Eventually, though, I attempted to give it purple highlights, effectively ruining it. I threw it away recently.
In any case, I call the new wig The Cobain:
As you can probably tell from those selfies, I’m really feeling it. Wearing it has been interesting. I live in South Bend, Indiana, and though within the city limits the populace is rather progressive, this is no San Francisco. Indiana is so specific and one-note that it’s nearly impossible to evoke it adequately in any neat turn of phrase or succinct comment, so suffice to say that South Bend is the sort of place where the residents are perfectly happy to elect a gay mayor, but where there’s actually only two gay bars. Go figure. In any case, I’ve not so far had any bad encounters whilest wearing The Cobain. I’ve received a few double-takes and discriminating glances, but all the verbal feed back has been positive–which is to say, no one has shouted slurs at me from across the street. I guess that says something, considering this is a town where I was once informed by a sales associate at the mall that I couldn’t buy a certain pair of shoes because they were “for women.” That’s progress, right?