The Unwanted Wig
In the seventies, it had become very fashionable to wear a wig, or postiche, as they were called in Tehran. Being a fashion-conscious young woman, I shopped around until I found just the right one. It had long, flowing auburn tresses. I could wear it when my hair was not perfectly coiffed or whenever my heart desired. I was thrilled with it! I took it to my hairdresser and had it shaped and styled. I wore it back home, feeling oh so very elegant.
I was late for lunch, and my ex-husband was home, not too happy having to wait for me. Nargess, our maid, had not offered to serve him in my absence. He was hungry and a bit irritable.
It was then that I walked in with my postiche adorning my head and a very pleased-with-myself look upon my face. He took one look at me and glowered. « What is that on your head? » he said.
« A postiche, » I said, twirling around for him. « Do you like it? »
« No! You wasted money on this? Take it back! Who gave you permission to get this? »
My heart fell a little. I really wanted this wig. « I did not know that you wouldn’t like it, » I said softly. « I cannot take it back. I already had it restyled. »
He glowered at me. « You are not to wear this wig. I do not like it! Take it off!» he said.
I did not say anything but took it off for the sake of peace. However, I wore it when I met my friends for tea or ladies’ luncheons. Each time I asked him for money, he would say, « You want money? Sell your wig! » The wig had become a bone of contention. I truly could not return it, and I had no one to sell it to.
One day, I was invited to a quite big ladies’ luncheon. It was at my uncle’s house. There were at least fifty women attending. My car was at the mechanic, so I took a taxi there. My ex, knowing I was there, called and told me he would pick me up. Forgetting I was wearing the wig, I thanked him. He took one look at me when he arrived. His face looked like a big thunderstorm. Too late, I remembered the wig. Silently, I entered the car. There were women in the garden. I did not want a scene. « Take it off! Take it off! » he said.
« Please don’t make a scene. Not here in front of everyone. »
He drove away. At the next red traffic light, he put his hand on my head and jerked it off. A man was crossing the street. He happened to look at us at that moment. I still remember the look of horror on his face when he witnessed my ex ‘scalping’ me. I giggled. « I think you nearly gave the poor man a heart attack, » I commented.
My mother and I were friends with a group of international ladies. They were embassy wives, wives of international businesses, society wives, and so on. We met once a week and enjoyed ourselves tremendously. As with my other group, we had teas and luncheons, and with our husbands, we also attended cocktail parties.
One of the ladies in this group was the wife of the Indian ambassador. In her religion, she was not allowed to cut her hair, but she was losing hair badly. One day, she commented that she was thinking of getting a wig. That way, she could cut her hair to strengthen it and wear the wig as her hair grew back. I mentioned that I had such a wig. I explained that my husband had taken an aversion to it, and that is why I did not wear it. She was quite interested to see it. That evening, I told my ex this, and he insisted he would come with me. He did. She tried it on. She turned her head this way and that as she smiled to herself in admiration. Finally, she turned to my ex and said, « It is a beautiful wig, why don’t you let her wear it? »
He replied, « How do I know the hair is not off the head of a dead woman? »
With two fingers, she gingerly removed the wig from her head and handed it to me.
I still have the wig somewhere. My daughter used it for costume parties. My son wore it as he ran around the house playing Cowboys and Indians. Eventually, it retired into a closet somewhere, gathering dust, quite forgotten.