A LITTLE BIT OF GLORY
by Kimberly Thomas
I sell wigs. I work downtown in a little shop on the corner of Fifth and Market. It's a weekend job to get some extra money—just to ensure that I can keep eating.
Big Wigs is a tiny, cramped dark place with mannequin heads on every inch of shelf and counter space. Long hair. Short hair. In-between hair. We sell blonde wigs, red wigs, brunette wigs, black wigs, grey, or salt-and-pepper. It doesn't matter what you need. We have them all.
Mrs. Blanca owns the store. She hired me one rainy Saturday afternoon. I had just come back from a ballet matinee in the arts center across the street, and I almost passed by the tiny shop...almost....Until I caught sight of the green-haired medusa staring at me from the window. A medusa with a carefully sculpted face.
It was a mannequin head with a long green wig perched on its plastic pate. That's when I noticed the 'Help Wanted' sign. Before I knew what I was doing, I was walking into the store. A tiny bell tinkled as I swung the heavy door open.
I was greeted by Mrs. Blanca.
"Help you?" a gruff voice asked at my shoulder. I looked down to find a white-haired old lady standing near my elbow.
"Uh...," I said. "I..."
"What you need a wig for? You've got hair," the old woman said.
"I don't want hair," I said, hitching my purse higher on my shoulder.
The old woman laughed, turning away from me with a curious jangle of silver bracelets encircling her arms.
"Of course you do," she said. "Every woman wants hair. Every woman wants a little bit of glory to call her own."
"Glory?" I repeated, following her into the dimly lit shop, staring at her retreating back.
"A woman's hair is a crown of glory. It's from the Bible," she said, trotting behind the counter and placing her small pudgy hands on the glass top. "Now, what are you looking for?"
I smiled. "A job. I want to apply for the job."
"Any experience?" she asked, drumming her long, red painted fingernails on the glass.
"No," I said. "What—"
"You're hired," she said. "When can you start?"
Each weekend, I am surrounded by a sea of mannequins—mannequins with perfectly shaped heads and impossibly long necks. Some have faces. Some don't. But all of them look at me. They look at me as I watch the women come to this shop. Some of them tiptoe through the door like spies on a top-secret mission, terrified that someone they know will see them cross the threshold in order to purchase hair. Some swagger in, their voices high with nervous laughter, their faces taut and shadowy. Others walk inside with reverence, voices hushed, as if they tread within a holy temple.
"Brunette wig. A page boy," they whisper. A trembling finger points to it. "That one. How much?"
I feel like a small godling, for I make their deepest wishes come true. Those cursed with thin, lifeless, short hair. Those whose hair has been fried and scrambled by relaxers, perms, one too many times. I offer them beauty, cascading ringlets, sleek bobs, stylishly short coifs that nestle about the ears and kiss the neck. Tendrils. Hair. Glory.
I work Saturday and Sunday afternoons in the wig shop. The hours slide by like hair through a silver comb. During slow times, I comb the wigs on the mannequin heads; coax them into submission so each will look their best.
At night, I dream of them. They are my children, clustered about me in the darkness, reaching towards me with their soft silkiness.
"Glory," they whisper in my dreams, tickling my eyelids, stroking my cheek.
Some customers are easy to please. They know what they want before they even step into the store.
"The red one," a woman says, her face alit with pleasure. "I'm going to a wedding out of town." She looks at me as if to apologize, as if to explain. "No one will know. I'll never see most of the guests again."
I nod as she pulls it onto her head, adjusts it, runs her fingers through the thick curls, stares into the mirror.
"Perfect," I tell her.
"Yes," she says. "It's perfect."
"Twenty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents," I say. She leaves with the wig ensconced in a nondescript bag, carrying it in her hands as if it is a long-sought treasure.
Others are not easy. Not easy at all. Wig after wig after wig.
"This one makes me look too fat." "This one makes me look old." "Doesn't fit my face."
Hours are spent in the little shop. Personalities, personas are tried on and discarded until I feel I will go mad if the woman does not make up her mind.
Sometimes, before closing shop, I try on wigs. I stand in front of one of the numerous mirrors to place a raven-haired wig on my head...perhaps a blonde one.
And when I'm feeling a little sad, unsure of who I am, I put on one of the red wigs I bought on my employee discount and walk the streets of some strange neighborhood—where no one knows me. And I walk. And I walk, tears coursing down my face like I'm Audrey Hepburn in the final scene of Breakfast at Tiffany's.
There are men who follow me when I wear my black wig with the waves flowing down my back—like a woman from a Botticelli painting. I wear the black wig when I am eating alone in a restaurant and want to seem bold and mysterious. I paint my lips red and pretend to be unconcerned as I peruse the menu. Strange men, lonely men, married men watch me as I sip my Coke and slice my steak into tiny, minute pieces. I chew and feel their eyes on my scarlet-stained lips. Inside, I am smiling, smiling and laughing...because they have no idea that I am a fraud.
I have always been a fraud—from as early as I can remember. Posing, laughing, crying for an audience who probably wasn't even watching in the first place. I am the ever-acting actress, longing to escape from mundane life and slip into a role—any role.
During the week, I am a secretary for a shirt manufacturer, dutifully pecking out correspondence on the PC, taking dictation, filing. By the weekend, I am a goddess, bestowing beauty upon any who come through the wig shop doors.
"Why are you wearing wigs?" Mrs. Blanca asks me, shaking her head as she looks me up and down. Looks at my smooth black tresses caressing my neck. "You've got hair."
But I do not want my hair, the workweek hair. The secretary hair suited to my secretary job. I am the actress. The woman. The maker of life in the wig shop. I am whoever I want to be.
One of my faithful clients is Doreen Barr, the food critic for the local newspaper. She came in one Saturday afternoon wearing a crisp white Oxford shirt and ragged jeans.
"I need a wig," she said. "Something nondescript. Plain."
"I'm a food critic," she went on, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. "People are beginning to recognize my face, so I need a disguise."
She spent an hour looking for the perfect wig. Doreen was one of the more choosey customers.
"Too long," she said, putting a brown wig back on the mannequin head. "Too curly," she said of another.
At last, she settled on a light brown wig cut in a simple layered style.
"Yes," she said.
I rang up the sale and handed her the bag.
"Come again," I told her.
And she did come. Once a month. Usually the third Saturday of every month.
"I'm going to the new Italian restaurant, Ramon's," she said. Or, "I have to review the new Korean restaurant downtown."
One day she invites me to go with her to the steakhouse on Oak Street. Of course, I go. We sit there, she and I, in a dimly lit corner ordering food, piles of food. And wine. She surreptitiously scribbles in her black notebook, the hair of her blonde curly wig falling against her cheeks, hiding her face, almost making her look young.
I meet so many people as I work in that store. So many. Sometimes men come in to purchase hair, but I don't ask questions.
My apartment is filled with wigs. I place them on every shelf, every counter, every table, every closet and corner.
"Madness," I whisper to myself as I sit on the sofa in the darkness, the mannequin heads staring at me—silent Nefertitis with enigmatic smiles.
Whenever people come over, they walk about the rooms with nervous strides, fingers twitching, eyes shifting to take it all in.
"Don't ask," I tell my friends.
"Weird," they say. "Creepy."
At night, I lay awake and stare at the heads and wigs lined up on my bureau. They watch over me, their shadowy visages mute and mystical. I hear them singing in my dreams, their immobile mouths humming, their perfect hair crackling with life.
One day I do the deed in secret. The clippers are clutched in my hand. Hair falls about me in soft whispers, drifting to the bathroom floor with silent thuds. Half an hour later, I stare at myself in the mirror gazing at the mannequin head before me. My head is shaped funny. Like an egg. For a second, I regret this final stage of insanity. Only for a second. I reach for the red haired wig and place it on my head. Now. Now I am perfect. A sculpted face with luxurious tresses. A goddess. An actress. A woman. A woman whose head is finally crowned with glory.
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