But my hate-hate relationship with my hair is not a new development. I have been threatening to shave my head and buy a wig for about 40 years now. My hair's been fine ever since I was a child, but when I was younger I had plenty of it. Now that I'm old, it's becoming more and more challenging to figure out ways to cover the bald spots. Or at least the bald spots I can see in the mirror. I take great pains to avoid looking at my hair from the back. I figure if I can't see it, I'm not gonna worry about it. But it does annoy the hell out of me to spend 30 minutes every morning with a curling iron and hair spray and know that in reality, I'm just indulging in the female version of the comb-over. I'm not fooling anybody. It's time to get a wig. But it won't be my first one.
We lived in San Diego from 1981 to 1984 while Randy served as the Naval intelligence officer for HS-8, a helicopter squadron that was based at North Island Naval Air Station and attached to the aircraft carrier USS Ranger. He left us for a nine month WESTPAC deployment in the summer of 1983, and had no choice but to do his Christmas shopping that year entirely through the catalogs that circulated among the guys on the ship. He bought toys for the kids through the Sears and Penney's catalogs and I'm sure he bought me a few things there as well. But a small package that arrived from him for me just before Christmas that year was wrapped in brown paper and bore a singular return address: Fredericks of Hollywood. Lingerie, I thought with a smile, as I tossed the package at the back of the Christmas tree and promptly forgot about it.
Mother and Daddy came down to San Diego that year for Christmas since I was alone, and it was such a treat to have them there for all the Christmas eve and Christmas morning festivities. My Dad played Santa that morning and handed out the presents, one at a time, just like he did when I was a little girl. The kids were having a blast and I was basking in the holiday glow until Daddy spotted the package at the back of the tree. I shot out of my chair to intercept the forgotten parcel, but before I could whisk it out of his hands, he read the label, handed it to me, and disappeared into the kitchen for a much-needed beer. My mother thought it was hilarious.
I opened enough of the package to discern that it did not, in fact, contain crotchless panties or a black lace teddie--it contained a wig. Relieved, I pulled it out and showed it to the folks until it dawned on me that there were still a number of naughty conclusions that one might draw from the fact that my husband was sending me a wig from Fredericks of Hollywood while he was out to sea. I stuffed it back in the package and under the couch cushions. Daddy got another beer. Mother still thought it was hilarious.
The truth was, Randy had been listening to me bitch about my hair for all the years we'd been married and while he might have been browsing the Frederick's catalog that year with other intentions in mind, he really, honestly, did want to try to fix my hair problem. It was a cute wig--shoulder length curls and in a color that was very near to my own. I tried it on dozens of times, but there was no escaping the fact that--on me--it LOOKED like a wig. I never actually wore it.
But my Frederick's of Hollywood wig DID actually see the light of day--on Randy. While we were living in Spain, our tiny little Rota Servicemen's Branch held a "Come As Your Favorite Fantasy" party (yes, you read that right--we had EXCELLENT parties in Spain!). For this particular party, it was perfectly clear what Randy would go as--he went as a rock star. With my wig, his British motoring cap, and a tennis racket, he played air guitar that would have put Van Halen to shame. I even threw a pair of panties at him. And I have photographic evidence (of the costume, not the panties):
After the party, I put the wig in a bag with some eyeglasses and other accessories from the evening and put it out in the carport. Our Spanish garbagemen accidentally took it out with the trash the next morning. I was heartbroken. I never told Daddy. I figured he'd need another beer.
