Mama's Wig

Mama hated her wig. She found it to be hot and itchy and not at all the thing for her. I really should preface this with Mama’s penchant for going against popular fashion conventions.

Sometime during my pre-teen years, Mama acquired the ugliest knit winter hat you ever saw and made it her favorite.

It had stripes of colors—red, black, yellow, white—going around and leading up to a red yarn ball on the crown. It wasn’t a skull cap; the kind you pull down on your head and fold up the end. It was more like a biker-mama hat with a small brim only knit and striped. She loved that thing—we, her children, hated it.

All through my years of junior high and high school, she wore it. Every year at Christmas, we would buy her a nice, conventional hat, scarf, and glove set. Every year she thanked us and wore it at least once. Then, it was back to being biker-mama.

As much as I hated that hat and hated her to wear it, I could instantly spot her in the stands cheering me on while I performed in the marching band. I always felt a little calmer after I’d see “The Hat.” Like all was right with the world, Mama was there and she had not changed.

During my senior year in high school, Mama was diagnosed with leukemia. Her doctor’s started her on chemotherapy. She suffered all of the usual side–tiredness, depression, and of course, hair loss.

Her hair came out in little bits and clumps. Eventually, she had only a few strands left. At home she didn’t bother covering her head. When she was going to work or church, she usually wore a bandana or a scarf.

One day, one of her friends gave her a wig. It looked pretty much like her hair—kind of an auburn red, short, and wavy-curly. She started wearing it to church and to work rather than the scarves and such.

I got home from my sophomore year at college in time to attend my sister’s end-of-year band banquet. This was a dress up affair and so Mama wore her wig.

We were in the middle of our dinner when my brother looked up at Mama and said, “Mama! Your wig is sideways.” Then, Mama just swirled it around on her head until no one knew which way the front was. We all laughed and had a good time with Mama’s Sideways Wig.

The next month Mama collapsed and my sister and aunt rushed her to the hospital. She had a stroke a few days later and died.

The night she died, Daddy, Amy, Leslie and I stayed up talking about what we wanted for her funeral. Daddy asked if we wanted to bury her in her wig. He hardly got the question out before all three said “No, she hated that wig.” So, we buried her sporting her almost-bald head.

My mother was unconcerned with convention. She went her own way. I like to think I go my own way, too. I hope as I get older, I continue to "come into myself" and be the person God made me to be. When I am buried, I want to be buried sporting my true self.