There’s this wig that sits on a high shelf in my bathroom. It’s composed of about two feet worth of long, brown, wavy, perfect, beautiful synthetic hair. Almost two years after my own hair fell out, and with a solid set of new locks growing in, I still haven’t been able to part with it. What if I need it again?
So there it sits, startling plumbers, guests, and occasionally even myself, floating on its faceless Styrofoam pedestal. I had picked this specific wig because it most resembled my favorite hairstyle before diagnosis. And while I’d experimented with a multitude of good and bad hair choices in my youth, when I remember myself in my twenties, this this is the hair I remember. it is the person I remember. But that person doesn’t exist anymore.
Recent revelations have forced me to reevaluate both the person I remember and the one I am now. And honestly, if I had to choose a wig again, it’s probably be different. Shorter, curlier, more like my current hair.
Hear more about Samantha’s New Normal at this year’s Notes of Hope Concert.