Wigless
by
Alaina Hammond
The day after Mr. Townsend died, Carla decided to do something fairly dramatic.
She didn’t wear her wig to school that day. She’d always been honest with her classmates about the fact that she wore a wig. But she’d never gone to school in her natural hair.
She also didn’t wear makeup. No makeup at all. Most notably, no false eyelashes. She didn’t even pencil in her eyebrows.
And she didn’t wear her usual high-heeled boots. Her flats added maybe a half inch to her height. No one at school had ever seen her so short.
Her clothes were the same as normal. But no one was looking at her clothes.
There were people who’d known her since freshman year who didn’t immediately recognize her. Notice her, yes—She was more noticeable than ever. But it took them a few seconds to realize exactly who they were seeing.
She got a few double takes. People were too polite to gawk at her openly, but they weren’t as subtle as they thought they were being. She intrigued them and repulsed them equally.
Everyone knew, intellectually, that Carla was under five foot, and had albinism. This wasn’t a secret. She wasn’t ashamed of it. But the thick blond wig, the heavy black eye makeup, plus the lipstick and the blush, gave her a kind of camouflage. Add the high-heeled boots, and she appeared, at first glance, to be a regular goth girl. Petite and pale, sure. But not exaggeratedly so.
Today, though. Today her classmates—and even some of her teachers—were startled by what Carla saw in the mirror every morning. It wasn’t hideous, but it was weird. She was still pretty. God, she looked weird.
Carla felt bad, on some level, that people were distracted by her appearance. It shouldn’t have been about Carla; it should have been about Mr. Townsend!
On the other hand, Carla’s grief was so intense that she wasn’t going to apologize for NOT dressing up. For not wearing a costume. Fuck that. Her lack of visible eyelashes spoke louder than sobs.
A year later, she wrote her college essay about the experience, titling it “The Day I Left My Masks At Home.” She hoped Mr. Townsend would have liked it. He would have been its harshest editor.
She didn’t wear her wig to school that day. She’d always been honest with her classmates about the fact that she wore a wig. But she’d never gone to school in her natural hair.
She also didn’t wear makeup. No makeup at all. Most notably, no false eyelashes. She didn’t even pencil in her eyebrows.
And she didn’t wear her usual high-heeled boots. Her flats added maybe a half inch to her height. No one at school had ever seen her so short.
Her clothes were the same as normal. But no one was looking at her clothes.
There were people who’d known her since freshman year who didn’t immediately recognize her. Notice her, yes—She was more noticeable than ever. But it took them a few seconds to realize exactly who they were seeing.
She got a few double takes. People were too polite to gawk at her openly, but they weren’t as subtle as they thought they were being. She intrigued them and repulsed them equally.
Everyone knew, intellectually, that Carla was under five foot, and had albinism. This wasn’t a secret. She wasn’t ashamed of it. But the thick blond wig, the heavy black eye makeup, plus the lipstick and the blush, gave her a kind of camouflage. Add the high-heeled boots, and she appeared, at first glance, to be a regular goth girl. Petite and pale, sure. But not exaggeratedly so.
Today, though. Today her classmates—and even some of her teachers—were startled by what Carla saw in the mirror every morning. It wasn’t hideous, but it was weird. She was still pretty. God, she looked weird.
Carla felt bad, on some level, that people were distracted by her appearance. It shouldn’t have been about Carla; it should have been about Mr. Townsend!
On the other hand, Carla’s grief was so intense that she wasn’t going to apologize for NOT dressing up. For not wearing a costume. Fuck that. Her lack of visible eyelashes spoke louder than sobs.
A year later, she wrote her college essay about the experience, titling it “The Day I Left My Masks At Home.” She hoped Mr. Townsend would have liked it. He would have been its harshest editor.