Adventures in Wigland
My mom shows up at my front door in the middle of the afternoon, unannounced.
“I’m ready for a wig,” she declares, walking right past me and pulling off her coat. I have asked her again and again to warn me before she shows up, but she never has, not once. Then again, I keep letting her in.
“A wig!” I reply, cautiously delighted, and a little confused. She’s been bald as an egg from chemo for months; I wonder what has shifted. But I’m thrilled with this clear directive — something we can actually do for her, for once — that I close my laptop and offer to make us lunch.
She calls out wig facts from my breakfast nook, as I take a bag of Trader Joe’s gnocchi from the freezer and dump it in a pan. “So, there’s fake hair and real hair,” she says. “Fake-hair wigs last six months on average. Real hair is more expensive, but it lasts for over a year.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“A few hundred versus a thousand, I think.” She looks at me and I look back, spatula in the air, trying to keep my face blank — to sidestep the subject of “lasting,” and months and years. Since her cancer diagnosis, she’s had a full-day surgery, two hospital stays, genetic sequencing, and six rounds of chemo. Each milestone has led to more bad news. The five-year survival rate for leiomyosarcoma is 14 percent, I know that by heart. Everything I read says she has nine to 15 months to live. (She will be gone in less than a year, but we don’t know that yet.) “Someone has to be in that 14 percent,” she tells me, whenever I suggest she start withdrawing her retirement early. So, we eat lunch and make plans to check out a wig store this evening and then see a movie.
Arriving at Wigland, we creep around for 10 minutes, waiting for the next free staffer. We walk shyly down the rows of disembodied display heads, exchanging amused glances but afraid to touch anything. The low ceilings and bad lighting, the dead-eyed stares of the wig mannequins — it all feels weighted with meaning, and I fight the urge to flee.
When it’s our turn to be helped, Brian, the proprietor, is careful with us, his approach sidelong. “How much do you know about wigs?” he asks with tender curiosity. “Absolutely nothing!” I answer, too eager. Brian doesn’t miss a beat. First, he tells us about synthetic wigs, which, he stresses, cannot be exposed to heat. You have to be careful reaching into the oven, or the bangs will frizzle. I laugh nervously, then worry it might be inappropriate in this setting. Wigs are so close to a joke, or a gag, but also, crucially, not at all.
Blessedly, my amusement only seems to encourage Brian. He grins and reminds us to be mindful of the dishwasher, too — the hot steam. I’m amazed, my dread giving way to admiration. The things people — wig people — go through, while people like me remain blithely clueless. “Oh, yes, and you want to steer clear of barbecues,” he adds, a twinkle in his eye. I want to say we’re experiencing camaraderie. Isn’t the world funny? Isn’t being human humiliating? Ha!
Finally, my mom sits to be fitted, and now Brian really shines. He puts on the wig cap with such evident care: “Does that feel okay? How is your scalp doing with the treatments? I know it can be extra sensitive.”
Mom lights up under his attentive gaze. “It looks like a fishnet stocking!” she says of the wig cap, embracing the absurdity. “It sure does.” He adjusts her. “One positive in all this is that you have a great head for wigs.” Mom replies: “Really?” as flattered and disbelieving as a child.
Brian wants a sense of what she looked like, before. Lately I have resisted looking back at old photos, where she looks so much younger and full of life, but now I jump at the opportunity to scroll back through my phone. There she is: medium-brown hair to her shoulders, reddish-blonde highlights framing her face. She used a curling iron almost every day, for as long as I could remember. I proudly hand Brian my phone — my beautiful mother! — and he shows no sadness or regret when he sees her; just squints at her hair and then rushes off, a man on a mission.
He returns with a stack of wigs, referring to them as “her” and “she,” which brings me joy each time. They seem alive in his hands when he slides them out of their boxes — an array of shoulder-length brunettes, graying auburns, and various gradients of salt-and-pepper. They look like my mother to me — like some long-lost body part. Like maybe her hair was here in Wigland the whole time?
The first he presents to us is a chestnut bob with bangs. She looks both not-quite-right and so much more right than she did a second ago. She is given back to me, briefly. I laugh gleefully, and take so many photos. The next one is too gray — grayer than she was. My mom laughs in horror, saying she looks like her mother. She does look exactly like Gram, who died just a few years ago at 95, an age that, barring a miracle, my mother will never see. She doesn’t want to look like her mom, but I want her to. I want her to be gray, to have softened, for time to have elapsed, for us to no longer be in this moment. I want her to age, to live. I want to have a mom who has made it to the phase of life where her hair is almost completely white.
Brian has another one, but he’s worried we won’t like it. “She’s a bit of a mess,” he tells us. “I’m a bit of a mess,” Mom laughs. She’s shoulder-length with a swoopy bang, and the shade is close to what mom’s once was: a tasteful blend of grey and dirty blonde. Pretty perfect, we agree. The one, probably.
At Brian’s urging, we go to the window to see her in natural light. I take a photo of both of us, smiling. We are grinning actually. I feel immense relief. We look so normal. Maybe she’s right, maybe her doctor and I have written her off prematurely, given up too soon. Why am I unable to live in the hopeful place my mother does? Where a 14 percent chance of being alive in five years feels significant, worth trying for? Where being wrong isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you?
We take more photos. Mom never resists taking pictures with me now, which I take as a bad sign. Like we both know there are only so many left. Brian sits her back in the chair and explains all the tweaks we can make to the wig. Thinning it here and there, shortening the back. No need for a hairdresser, Brian says, smiling. He can do it himself, if we trust him.
“We trust you!” I blurt, without checking with my mom. Of course we trust him, or I do. I know that Brian wants more for my mother than she does for herself. He will make it better, this wig we love already, that is $220. He can have her back to us in just a few days, he says. I want to be like him, to see people at their most vulnerable and know that I can improve their lives — not interpersonally, but with my own very specific skill.
Back the car, I do a three-point turn, directing us toward the movie theater. By the time I shift from reverse to drive, I’m jubilant. “I didn’t think we’d actually buy one today!” I say, looking over at Mom, now fitting her wool beanie back on her bald head. “Me neither!” she answers. It feels like we’re two teenagers who just got our ears pierced, or something equally wholesome and indulgent. I wonder what else we can do — how else we can chase this feeling, before it’s no longer available to us.
Meaghan O’Connell is freelance writer and editor and the author of the 2018 memoir And Now We Have Everything: On Motherhood Before I Was Ready. You can find her work in New York Magazine, Romper, The New York Times, and her newsletter, What The Living Do.
P.S. The Dead Dad Club, and nine life lessons I learned after my cancer diagnosis.
(Top photo by Jerusha/Unsplash.)
Tags: grief
Comments
79 commentsmy mom has cancer too. we went wig shopping at thanksgiving. she lost her hair after a stem cell transplant in January. this hit me in a way that I did not know I needed, so that I could have a good sob after all this time. thank you, and I am so sorry for your loss.
Oh my gosh, you are an amazing writer.
What a beautiful story. I am so sorry about your mom – it sounds like your relationship was very special. You have her exact eyes in this picture! It sounds like Brian was the perfect person to help navigate a very difficult decision – he sounds amazing.
I have sarcoma too and just went wig shopping. It was fun. I’m glad you got to have that experience with your mom. I loved the picture you shared. Big hugs to you and to all the sarcoma warriors and their supporters.
A very tender, loving account
What a beautiful portrait of a moment. Thank you.
my god, what a story. recently, because everything is so fake, I crave these very could-only-be-human interactions and stories. what brilliant writing, and so sorry for your loss.
Thank you for writing this. Your mom was lucky to have you as her daughter! God bless Brian. What a meaningful career he has. And you, too! Putting feelings into words. Just a glimpse of life with mom going through cancer treatment. Been there (it sucked). Hugs to you.
My mom passed 24 years ago and after a meeting with the oncologist we were referred to a wig “department”. I still remember feeling hopeful, but so sad, putting on a brave face and making jokes to make her laugh. Cancer treatment has come so far in the years she has been gone and I am so thankful for that. I’m sorry for your loss and glad you were there for your mom on so many levels.
If anyone needs support/resources in the Princeton, NJ area – a friend started this amazing company – Move Over Breast Cancer https://moveoverbreastcancer.org/ which is a mobile van that provides emotional and physical support and resources.
When I went through chemo, the one thing I embraced was the wigs. I had so many! My first was a human hair wig that was very closely matched to my original hair which I received from an amazing local charity called Wig Warriors. The woman who runs the foundation is a hairstylist and shop owner whose stepmother passed from breast cancer and she dedicates her free time to providing free styling and wigs to cancer patients. An angel on earth. I also had on rotation a pink wig, a light blue, a purple, and a number of hat/hair wig combos (in my opinion, the very most comfortable of all). I rocked the hell out of the pink wig with dark roots, which was the one I used the most. I actually felt GOOD wearing it and got so many compliments, I truly wished I could have hair that color (way too much damage to actually do to my regrown hair). I even walked the runway in a fashion show in NYC in the pink wig!
I’m so glad your Mom had you. You must have been a huge comfort to her. God bless.
I felt this. It made me vividly remember sitting in the hospital room with my mom talking with her about scarf and hat options once she started chemo. She passed away two days later. Now I use her scarf collection to wrap gifts for my children.
The ache of wrapping your mom around a moment of joy, imagining she can feel it through the touch of that fabric…sigh.
I read this with tears in my eyes. Thank you for sharing such a tender moment of your life with us. You, your mom, Brian… now with us forever.
this essay is gorgeous – thank you Meaghan. i am absolutely bawling… i’ve been through cancer myself and your description of the wig shop and the kind gentle folks i interacted with, and the absolute heaviness of it all was so beautifully captured. sending you so much love.
Everything about this is beautiful- your writing, the sentiment, the love that you share for your mother. So, so sorry for your tremendous loss but hope that the wonderful times that you had together start to spark joy rather than sadness.
This was difficult to read but incredibly beautiful. I’m crying as I remember my own Mom losing all her hair just a month or so before she died. Thank you for sharing.
My gosh. I didn’t think I would be in such tears at the end when I saw the title . Such a beautiful essay and like others said you made me feel every emotion in a story that is very hard to tell . Thank you for sharing
What a beautiful essay. Thank you for sharing this and reminding us of what matters.
I love the pic and story. You are both beautiful !! Shine on!
Beautiful! I love the love between you guys. I know your mom is strong and will beat the ass out of this! 🌸✨️🌸
As someone going through a second round of cancer (and I say this gently and kindly), I could have used a trigger warning.
Yep. Currently in cancer treatment and trying to protect my mental health from unexpected bad outcome news. This is a lovely essay, but a content warning up top would be appreciated.
Thank you Meaghan. You captured the strange, fleeting hope you feel while watching your mother die from a terminal illness so well… And now I get to tell you that I loved your book on becoming a mother! I read it while breastfeeding my first newborn and found it so comforting and funny. Thank you for these gifts!
The thing about Meaghan O’Connell, is that she is an excellent writer in the shortest form and the longest! I have followed her (writing) since the Tumblr days, and various other platforms. So very glad to see her pop up here. More, please! This was a beautiful description of making a lovely moment during very difficult time.
Beautiful. Xo to you.
Meaghan O’Connell of The Billfold! So lovely to find her again, even with such a heart wrenching story to tell. Lovely.
Meaghan! I want to affirm that your writing is that specific skill helping so many who have lost their own mom’s, including myself. “I wanted to be like him, to see someone at their most vulnerable and be able to help them. Not just interpersonally, but with my own specific skill.” Sending you the warmest of hugs.
Meaghan! I want to affirm that your writing of this story is that specific skill helping so many who have lost their own mom’s, including myself. “I wanted to be like him, to see someone at their most vulnerable and be able to help them. Not just interpersonally, but with my own specific skill.” Sending you the warmest of hugs.
Thank you.
Oh honey (…). Crying now.
This one cracked my heart right open. So beautiful.
I held back tears through this entire beautiful, heartbreaking essay. The journey of losing a parent to cancer is terrifying and your words brought me right back to some poignant moments with my dad. Thank you for sharing your beautiful mom with us. Your love for her comes through clearly.
As a reader who just got her first post cancer haircut Monday (triple negative breast cancer diagnosed June ‘24, in remission for about a year so far), thank you for sharing. Even though I was 36 at diagnosis, with a 3 year old, I think there’s a universal feeling all moms share- there’s never enough time. Whether our kids are babies, or grown and can go wig shopping with us, no amount of time will ever be enough. I know how hard it is wanting and willing yourself to be in that 14%, if love could save us, or we could will ourselves through it to be here for another moment with our babies (big or small), no mother would ever be lost to cancer. I am sure she was so loved, and loved you deeply.
This really struck a chord with me 🩷
I’m currently in treatment for TNBC, I love seeing survivors out there- thanks for posting.
I saw the title and got excited because I wear a wig, but the story was much more significant than that. What beautiful writing and it captured so much – the hope and fear, the worry, the little bits of humor sprinkled in. I am so sorry for your loss, Meaghan. I had cancer/chemo/radiation/surgeries about 9 years ago and I lost my hair and it never came back so I deal with all the annoyances of wigs just so that people won’t think I’m still sick. But I try to focus on being grateful for the life I am still living.
Beautiful essay. Thank you for sharing Meaghan, I am so touched. You, your Mom and Brian are so real and precious.
Meaghan, I remember shopping for my wigs during my chemo treatment (saw your mother also had the red devil, so fun – said no-one ever!). You captured all the highs and lows and in between so perfectly. I bought a couple of wigs, and the funny thing is I never ended up wearing them. I never felt like me. Not even close. My father died of aggressive liver cancer a month ago, and I cherish all the voicemails he left. I hope you keep visiting all the memories as you are able. Also, my heart dropped seeing your mother passed. *(#&$ cancer.
What a beautiful story! To be honest, I read it with just one eye (and that was partially covered with hands) because as someone who was bald with chemo 5 years ago, it is hard to read wig stories. But your mom looks beautiful in her wig and I admire her ability to focus on that 14%. And I am envying her eyebrows. I lost everything (yes, EVERYTHING!). The lack of hair on my head was not as humbling as my loss of eyelashes and eyebrows. You can wear a wig. You can wear false eyelashes (although I discovered that my skin was very, very sensitive to eyelash glue and ended up using magnetic eyelashes). But fake eyebrows (drawn on or tiny wigs) just don’t fix the problems when you have no eyebrows. I am sending you both a big virtual hug. These are fierce and tender times.
This brought back memories of me taking my mother to a wig shop before she started chemo. This was over 32 years ago…sadly she passed that year. I am sorry for Meaghan’s loss and all of the others who have lost someone to this horrible disease. At the same time, I am sending healing hugs to those going through it…times and treatments have changed so much over the past 30 years.
In my Jewish faith we say “May their memory be a blessing” when a loved one passes. Your mother’s memory truly is a blessing! What a wonderful essay. Thank you for sharing.
Oh this brought back such a lovely memory of shopping for a wig for my mom. I don’t recall the name of our “Brian” but he was equally lovely. She passed on a few years after getting that wig, but it made a big difference in how she felt.
This is so beautiful, I’m crying, I love Meaghan’s writing so much and so happy to see her here.
Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing.
CRYING!!! Wow, what a beautiful post. Meaghan, thank you for sharing your story with us and giving us a glimpse at your wonderful mother and your brilliant writing.
Oh Meaghan. In tears. Your love and anguish here are palpable. I only realized at the end that you’re the same Meaghan who wrote that amazing memoir I read a few years ago (as I was embarking on my own motherhood journey). Thank you for your work.
😭😭😭sending so much love to you Meaghan. You are a gifted story teller. You have your mom’s beautiful smile and sparkly eyes. Jo, I second idea to make Meaghan a regular.
Beautiful writing, and we need more Brians this world.
“I wanted to be like him, to see someone at their most vulnerable and be able to help them. Not just interpersonally, but with my own specific skill.” This so beautifully clarifies why I became a doctor. These words stopped me in my tracks today. Thank you for sharing your beautiful story.
Brian! I’m crying.
This essay! Sob. Thank you for sharing your mom and your story with us.
Oh Meaghan. I loved this so much. Thank you.
Wow, this is easily my favorite guest essay on CoJ to date. Meaghan beautifully captured this moment in time with vivid imagery, palpable emotions, and delicately chosen prose. I adored the photo of Meaghan and her mother at the end and, after hearing about Brian, wished I could see his cheerful face next to a happy customer he’d helped. I’m grateful to the Brians of the world whose tender care bring dignity to those who are struggling and need a welcome reminder of themselves.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Thank you for sharing your sparkling mother with us.
Oh, bravo! More from this wonderful writer, please!
So beautiful!
This is a beautiful essay, and then to realize at the end that Meaghan wrote it! I’ve loved your writing from across the internet for so long and feel like And Now We Have Everything gave me the courage to become a mom myself (and it’s so funny). I’m so sorry for your loss
Your text really moved me and that picture of your mom… my mother passed away 10 years ago and I took care of her the best I could. I hadn’t thought about the wig afternoon for a while. We never bought a wig, she didn’t lose her hair but it was so weird putting on those wigs, laughing and crying. Just the two of us. Thank you for reminding me. I had never shared that moment before today. Sending you a warm hug, your mother seems so nice. Love from Paris.
Beautiful story. I’m here to say as one of the 14 percent. Your mother‘s optimism is spot on. On February 28th this year I officially reached the 5 years mark since my last round of AIM chemotherapy for uterine leiomyosarcoma. It’s a scary diagnosis but each patient is different. The best advice my therapist gave me was to stop reading about leiomyosarcoma because the possibilities are scary, instead focus on living in the now. Sending your mom positivity and fortitude for the path ahead.
Sofia, that makes me so happy. I know that regimen is no joke (the red devil!). My mom died a couple of years ago but I know she’d be THRILLED for you!!
Thank you. Sending you hugs.
Meaghan O’Connell in cup of jo, I want to stand up and CHEER, but I am too busy laughing and crying, ( the exact feelings my own mother’s death is giving me.) Your mom’s wig is (was) perfect, as is the photo. and wow death AND “wigs are so close to a joke, or a gag, but also, crucially, not at all.” thank you for this, M.
beautiful.
How appropriate reading this while waiting for my wife to finish radiation day one of this latest round. We haven’t had to deal with hair loss yet or chemo, but she has two bands of white in her hair from two previous treatments. It’s hard seeing this constant reminder. I can imagine how much relief you must have felt to see your mom looking like herself again.
I’ve read your memoir back when I was pregnant with my daughter, and found it so poignant. And now I read this beautiful piece as my mom goes through chemo and not great odds. Thank you for writing.
This gave me all the feels.
Oh Meaghan, what a beautiful piece, and such a stunning photo. Thank you so much for sharing your mom with us. (And wow, shoutout to all the Brians out there, meeting people where they are in hard times)
No words. Just tears ….
Let’s sob together, Beth! What a story, what a woman, what a Brian.
Beautiful story, thank you for sharing. And it also warmed my heart to read about Brian and all the good he’s doing. There are so many wonderful people out there, supporting those in vulnerable situations, and I’m grateful.
My mom never got to the chemo stage. She was 55 when we lost her. I’m so glad for you that you had some time to spend with your mom. Thirteen years later, I am now 41 and pregnant, thinking about her so much! I am interested in your motherhood book and I will pick it up this week! Wonderful essay.
Wig shopping can be quite daunting. I had to get one during chemo and I admire at how lovely your mom looked in hers. Mine was,shall we say, less appealing. Brian sounds like an absolute love and all of your thoughts are sadly very relatable. I’m so sorry for the loss of your delightful mother. That photo is incredibly heartwarming and achy at the same time.
Please make Meaghan a regular contributor. I LOVE her writing so much. <3
Agreed!!!
Wow. Lovely and meaningful! Thank you for sharing this with us.
Around 8 years ago, I had a recurrence of my breast cancer and got a wig. That time I knew I’d be bald all over because I was going to get the high test chemo. My wig has been sitting in my closet ever since. While I had a lovely experience getting the wig (wig shop owners are kind, compassionate humans), it never felt like me. I’m so thankful the experience Meghan described gave her mama a little of herself back. PSA: Y’all cancer sucks and it’s scary AF. It’s so hard on the person going through it, but we often forget about the caregivers who are going through it as well. It’s so hard to be the patient and be present for your caregiver. If you are the friend or loved one of a caregiver, please reach out to them and love on them. They need just as much support as the patient. Signed, the patient who couldn’t be present for her husband and who wished people had reached out to him more.
Thank you, Rebecca. My sister-in-law was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. She has had surgery, and meets with her oncologist this week. We are anticipating radiation and chemo. Her husband lost his father last weekend. He is a very quiet and reserved person, and I so appreciate your comment to reach out to him as well as my sil. We probably won’t ever really know how much this affects him.