I promised some words for your blog. Here is my offering. As agreed, I would ask not to be attributed as I am not comfortable going “public” with my little piece. I will stay in the closet for awhile; I am having so much fun with peoples’ reactions. Thanks for everything. — D
When adults in Canada get up in the morning, three quarters of us reach for our glasses or contact lenses. About 20% of adults put in their dentures and 12% their hearing aids. I don’t know how many put on a hairpiece, but I do.
I have joined the ranks of celebrity stars, except that I don’t wear a bouncy wig; I wear a partial wig, called a postiche. Calling it a “postiche” is so much more suave than calling it a topper or toupee. When I first went to pick it up and Jackie styled it, I was delighted. I said to Michael, “This is my special thing for going out to dinner or to a concert,” and Michael said, “You may find it addictive.” He was right. It was so much a part of me that I haven’t named it., any more than I would name my dental crowns. It is a little thing that squeezes in the palm of my hand to a little ball of fluff. When I put it on it cascades over my bald patches and gives definition to my silhouette., all in a way that looks very natural.
It has made a subtle but profound impact on my self-image: I find that I feel more confident, that I do not mind people looking at me. I do not bob and weave my head while talking, probably a subliminal tactic I used to distract attention from my pitiful hairline. (“Look at my face, look at my eyes, anywhere but my hair…”)
Clipping on my postiche is now as habitual as inserting my contacts. When I first started wearing this little device, people said, “You look ten years younger. What have you done to yourself?” I just said “Thanks, new hairstyle.” No one, not even my close family, has figured it out. (Yes, they’re guys, but still.) I love this little thing, and yes, I would recommend it to others. Thank you to Continental Hair.