We had the shop to ourselves and, for such an immensely private and difficult part of the process, I was really grateful for this. I would recommend, if you can, making a private appointment at a specialist wig shop and taking a good friend with you
for support and advice. I took my best friend in the world. My fiance David. Ooh I didn't mention him much in the last blog did I? He was, of course, by my side through the first act in my chemotherapy roadshow although he did sit in the Blue chair as he thought
me, the poor patient, would be in something more "medical". Oh how fast he moved when he realised the people in the Blue chairs actually get the chemo.
Anyway I was seated on a Black leather stylist chair in front of a large ornate mirror in the salon
part of The Hary Fairy and Tracey brought us tea and wig magazines to have a look through. Now, let me tell you, I love shopping. I love almost all shopping. Before I met David and we had our boys (i.e back when I could afford it) me and my mum would go late
night shopping at The Trafford Centre at least once a week. Conveniently the Trafford Centre is situated on the wrong side of a swinging bridge from where I used to live so when I used to drop Mum off and Dad would make tutting noises at both the amount of
bags we had and the fact it was so late we'd say "Bloody swinging bridge again" (although Mum wouldn't say Bloody. Just potty mouth little me). In fact in almost ten years of living in Salford I think I actually got stuck on the swinging bridge (not
on it obviously but waiting for it to swing back) no more than twice but it was a damn fine excuse and one I'm sure lots of Mancunian (sorry Salfordian) shopaholics have used on their exasperated partners.
So, yes, shoppng was a hobby of mine and, to
be fair, that didn't get any less so when my boys were born. I just changed what I went shopping for. In department stores I'd head for the childrenswear and toy departments and very rarely bought anything for myself. To be fair, after more than ten years
of spending most of my disposable (hate that word. Reminds me of disposbale toilet wipes) income on clothes which are now ensconced in various lofts of varous famly members across the North West of England it is true to say that I never need to go clothes
shopping again. Apart from when we get to the bit about how much weight I piled on during my steroid days and I had to stock up on big girl clothes.
But here I was in a shop and, again, it was all about me. But this wasn't a purchase I wanted to make.
This wasn't money I wanted to spend on myself. I derived no pleasure from this shopping trip. But there was laughter. Oh there was a lot of laughter when David, in his infinite male wisdom, came over all Gok Wan and convinced himself that I would "look great"
in a short, funky wig. I didn't look great, I looked like a complete t**t. I also discovered that I would never get to find out if blondes do indeed have more fun because I looked rdiculous with fair hair.
I did, however, fall in love with a long, tumbling,
brunette wig and as soon as I put it on my head I sad "I'm getting married in this".
I also chose a synthetic brown bob with a fringe and a longer, straight style that made me want to do Cher impersonations (https://amzn.to/2QlxXuc)
We left the shop several pounds lighter (i'm not allowed to put actual values on anything in case my mum reads this and we all know what mums are like. Love you Mum. It was very cheap. Almost free really)
I have since discovered that online wigs
are similar quality and a darn sight cheaper so check all options first (https://amzn.to/2CHdCg4) and maybe try a few on in a wig shop then order online.
Tracey also threw in some wig shampoo and conditioner and,
by the time we left The Hairy Fairy, and I realised that the hair boxed up in my bag was actually nicer than the hair on my head I actually felt, dare I say it, okay.