A Hair Braising Experience

So I spent last weekend in Northern California with my dad and my brother. Dad had a cataract surgery on Thursday and wasn't able to drive, so Jim and I spent the weekend with him, cleaning out some of mom's things, and helping plan dad's move to San Diego.

On Sunday afternoon Jim and I left Bodega Bay to head for the Oakland Airport. On the way we planned to stop at Jim's new bachelor pad in San Leandro. The weather was horrible. Pouring down rain, loads of wind, and cold.

Jim's pad is perfect for him. Just the right size with enough room to live but not too much to take care of. It took about 5 minutes to complete the grand tour. I mentioned I was cold so Jim turned on the tall, narrow wall heater.

Because of the dampness in the air I was still cold. While Jim was at his computer I wandered over to the heater and turned my back to it. I stood there for a couple of minutes enjoying the warmth as it took the chill off. Then I felt a strange sensation on my head.

"What was that?" I wondered, reaching my hand back to touch the back of my head.

"Uh oh. Oh no. I did not just do that!" I yelled.

My brother came running. "What's wrong?"

"I don't believe it," I said, then showed him what I was talking about.

I pulled it off my head and turned it around to look at the frizzie strands. The only thing missing was the unforgettable smell of singed human hair. The flyer had said "Heat is your only enemy." Oh no.

Yep. It's true. I melted my $300 wig!

"Bummer," Jim said, in that "Oh geez I don't know what to say to that" tone that only a big brother with a little sister can have.

So what happens to a wig when it melts, you ask?

It shrivels. It frizzes. It sort of explodes. In my case, the front, top and sides were still perfectly (and thankfully) intact. The upper part of the back, however ... not so much. It was shrivelled. I immediately grabbed my special wig brush, thinking I could brush away the mess. Not so much. All I succeeded in doing was amplifying the frizz factor.

And now I had to get on an airplane. As if I weren't already self conscious enough. Ugh!

We headed to the car and I immediately opened my suitcase and grabbed one of my handmade, bamboo yarn beanie hats (thank you Carol!). I put it on over my wig, pulling it over the back of my head to hide the telltale signs of wig meltage. I felt like a dork but it did the trick.

But it was H-O-T! Especially while sitting on the plane waiting for the doors to close. You know, the time when there's NO air and a LOT of body heat? Oy!

So what does one do with a melted wig? Well, if one has a place called A Greater Hope (the most wonderful place in the world if you're a cancer patient), she calls the owner Ofelia and says HELP! Of course this was Monday morning of President's Day, and of course Ofelia wasn't open on a holiday, but I booked an appointment with her for today at noon.

I had been thinking of having my wig trimmed anyway. The long locks in the back tend to tangle and are kind of a pain. I figure this little incident is the universe's way of kicking me in the behind to get it done.

I arrived at Ofelia's place at noon, wig secure inside my quart-size ziplock bag.

"Let's see it," she said knowingly.

No sooner was it halfway out of the bag than she said "What on earth did you DO?"

I humbly recited the entire story, then muttered "Please tell me you can fix it ..."

Let's see what we can do. She took the wig and disappeared into the other room. After about ten minutes I had run out of things to do on my Blackberry so went in search of her to see the magic behind the curtain. There she sat, with my wig on a stand in front of her, using a curling iron and a steamer!

"But ... but ... Heat is the enemy!" I said.

"Only if you don't know how to use it," she replied with a smug confidence.

And so my hero, Ofelia, smoothed my wig. It didn't look perfect, but it was so much better.

"Let's trim it a bit and it'll be good as new," Ofelia said.

Who knew you could give a wig a haircut? Is that like giving a pig a pancake?

And so I was seated in the comfy stylist chair, adorned with my black smock, and Ofelia worked her magic. She snipped. She thinned. She trimmed. And then she took the wig off my head and disappeared again.

Once again I followed her, eager to see what new tricks were up her sleeve. Turns out they weren't tricks at all, just a teflon-coated curling iron. She used it to give some shape to the blunt ends she had just cut. Then, Ouila! A perfectly coiffed head of hair.

And the moral of the story? Heat is the enemy. Ofelia is the ally. And the universe? And the universe will still never cease to amaze me.