Beech Tree News Network

When I was in the eighth grade and my two younger sisters were in the sixth grade, we discovered if we really, really wanted something, my Dad was the one to hit up for it, not my stepmom.  My stepsister, Lorrie, was my Dad’s favorite—he never tried to hide the fact—so Lorrie was always the one sent in to plead our case before him.  (It’s no surprise to any of us that Lorrie became a lawyer.)  To be fair to Mom, there were a lot of kids in our family, and she had to stretch every penny.  She wanted us to have some of the stuff our friends had, but her resources were limited.
    During those golden times when Lorrie was on her game, and she was able to wear Dad down with her yammering, Mom always went along.  “If your Dad says yes then you can have it,” she would  tell us.  Thanks to Lorrie’s skills, we got ponchos, fishnet stockings and go-go boots all in the same year.
    One afternoon, while Lorrie was looking at one of those teen magazines, she decided it was time for the three of us to look more hip.  Our farm girl, stringy hair and bangs look just didn’t cut it anymore.  It was 1968, and all the glam girls of that era had stick-straight hair, cut in a bob that curved under at the jaw line.  It was of no use to get our hair cut into the style, she argued, the results just wouldn’t last.  What we needed were wigs.
    This was one fashion suggestion that gave one reason to pause.  I’d never really thought about getting a wig.  I did stay pretty frustrated with my naturally curly hair, and a wig might come in handy on a bad hair day.  Yes, I could see myself in a wig.  We were all in agreement, this was a Dad-worthy request.
    It took Lorrie nearly two weeks to wear Dad down.  Three wigs, even back in 1968, was a financial stretch for our family.  I had just about given up hope, when Dad finally buckled.  (I’d really hate to be up against Lorrie in a courtroom today.)  The trip to the mall in Louisville was planned for the following Saturday.  Dad even went along as a consultant.  He didn’t want us getting anything too wild, he said.
    Back in that day, the department stores carried wigs.  Lorrie directed us to a J.C. Penney.  She had checked the sales papers and decided it was the store for us.  The sales lady who waited on us was very gracious and patient.  I’m sure it was difficult for her to keep a straight face as three little girls tried on wigs.  Lorrie chose a blonde wig, cut exactly like the hair style she had seen in the magazine.  Rhonda chose the same style but in a brunette shade.  I was planning on making it three when a strawberry blonde wig, cut in the style Haley Mills wore in “The Parent Trap” caught my eye.  It was exactly the look I needed.  We were elated as we carried our plastic cases from the store containing Styrofoam heads to which were attached the most god-awful synthetic wigs money could buy.
    On Monday morning, we all three got up early and jockeyed for position in front of the mirror.  Before we put on our wigs, we put on little stocking caps that smoothed and concealed our hair.  (We looked like Nicholas Cage in the convenience store robbery scene from “Raising Arizona.”)  Next, we put on our wigs and congratulated each other on the transformation we saw in the mirror.
    When I arrived at school that morning, I was sure everyone would complement me on my new hair style.  When I walked into the classroom, the first person I met was this cute blonde-haired boy I had a crush on.
    “Why are you wearing a wig?” he asked.
    “It’s a new haircut,” I protested.
    “Looks like a wig to me,” he shrugged as he walked away.
    I saw my best friend across the room.  I could depend on her for support.  “Like my new haircut?” I asked.
    “Yeah, it looks good,” she said weakly.  It wasn’t quite the reaction I was looking for.  I spent the rest of the school day pulling and tugging at the wig as bits of my own hair fought to free themselves from beneath the stocking cap. I was definitely the center of attention that day, and who knew a wig could raise your body temperature by ten degrees? 
    When I arrived home that afternoon, I learned my sisters had suffered similar fates.  Now we were in a real pickle.  Dad had spent money he really couldn’t spare on those wigs.  We couldn’t just not wear them.  No, if we had any hope of getting anything else we wanted in the future, we would have to soldier on.  So we did, day after miserable day. 
    Eventually, Rhonda abandoned the charade.  I was next to fold.  Lorrie was the sole holdout.  She had to be.  She had a reputation to protect, a future of want lists to protect, and sisters with want lists to protect, as well.  No, she wouldn’t buckle, she would take one for the team, and she did.  She wore that blonde wig the rest of the school year. 
    I don’t know how long Rhonda and Lorrie kept their wigs, but I kept mine for years.  I think I kept mine because it represented a solidarity between my sisters and me, a solidarity that would become irreparably fractured before I graduated high school.  I just wanted to remember a time when we were three kids who pulled together for a common goal.