elizaskinner.net – the jambox

If only it were real.

I am fascinated by my co-workers hair, or more accurately, their hairstyles. For the most part, it’s not actually their hair – or, it is, but in the sense that they have reciepts for it. Most of my co-workers are black women, and the break room is like a hair show. Their hair changes quickly and drastically – one woman just sprouted tawny blonde dreads overnight – while mine remains shoulder-length, tangly, and stinking of alcohol (partly my fault, I suppose) every day.

I was one of 3 white girls in my high school (actually, after Crystal Peters got in a tragic car accident with her boyfriend, 8-ball, one of 2) and was similarly fascinated with my friends’ hair back then. Honestly, calling them “my friends” is a stretch, but there is no good term for “the handful of girls on my bus who DIDN’T beat me up for being nerdy, white and a year younger than everyone.” None of them knew my name, but instead called me “white girl” and later, “funny white girl” – a term I am still pathetically proud of.

I lurked at the back of the bus, listening raptly to their complaints about relaxers and the hours (hours!) spent at the beauty shop getting perms and braids and incredibly ornate weaves, or about sleeping sitting upright so as not to crush a multi-layered hair fiasco. There was no way I was ever going to pull off wearing glitter and fingerwaves – I was lucky if I remembered to wash my hair more than once a week. (When I say “nerd” it’s not in the cute “I was such a gawky teen” super-model way. I was disgusting. I wasn’t just a National Merit Scholar, I played role playing games BY MYSELF and considered hygiene optional.) But even if I could, it sounded like a major pain in the ass.

I even tried once. I got a horrible haircut from a co-worker when I was 22, after he told me used to be “famous for hair” in Miami. (I actually let him cut my hair using only a cigarette lighter, because I was retarded until I was 24…or 26. Or about a month ago, really.) After a few days of hiding I found a place near the Queensborough Bridge that did hair weaves for cheap. Half-way through the truly painful process, as I imagined myself going bald from the tight braids and all the upkeep my new plastic hair was going to take, I started to panic. I jumped out of the chair babbling “I am not the type of person who can get a weave! I can’t do this!” and, crying, bought a lot of barrettes and waited.

But wigs – that’s a whole different story! Wigs take no time or commitment! I can be just like these ladies at work – a new me every day! I don’t have to worry about which haircut will make me look fat or manly! Now I can just slap on a…um…no. No I can’t.

My people cannot wear wigs. With white people, wigs signify disease, insanity, or othodox judaism. They are dirty secrets, hiding something, usually something very bad. White people see wigs as lies, and no one wants to walk around with lies on their head. There is no way I could wear a wig around without people interrupting every conversation with “so, um…a wig, huh? Are you ok?” No one would say that to a black woman in a wig, except an asshole or a white person.

But what if we’re not trying to fool anyone, but just have some fun with a goddamn wig?What is wrong with us, white people?? Can’t we just chill out and enjoy an accessory or two? Quit making fun of Britney’s wigs and Tyra’s wigtape - they know we know they’re wearing wigs! Who cares? Once we remove this wig stigma (go ahead, say it, you want to – wigma) we all benefit – especially bald dudes. Glennis put a picture of us in wigs on the internet and IMMEDIATELY a stranger asked to fuck me. That never happens with my real hair. This kind of attention can be ours, white people! Wigs are our land of milk and honey!

Let my people go (put on wigs)!

Originally posted 5/3/2007

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