big bag of wigs

The first time I went to Nantucket was in 1990. It was love at first sight. The beaches, the salty air, the sailboats, whale belts and red shorts. It was quiet and gorgeous. It was quintessential summer. The blues of the ocean and sky next to the greens of sea grasses were and still are so soothing and satisfying to my soul.

Living in Arizona and visiting the coast in the summers whether it was California, New Jersey or Nantucket felt deeply healing, like a return to something unnamable and vast. The water was something I longed for after breathing in the dry desert heat.

I’ve found it interesting that while I still love going to new places, the returning to places that hold special meaning and memories feels deeply sustaining and nurturing to me as I get older.

Nantucket is one such place. It reminds me of my parents. It reminds me of foggy mornings, rainy days with a book, and sunshiny evenings on the sand with sparkly crashing waves and a slight chill in the air.

A year before my mom died, we were all in Nantucket together. I treasure the photo I have of her all wrapped up in a blanket with two of my kids by her side. This summer, I gave myself the gift of extended time on the island. My siblings were there and a few friends visited too. One of my friends said after a night of laughs and more drinks than usual, that it felt more like a bachelorette party, sans the penis straws, than a celebration for a middle-aged woman. That made me proud.

But nothing screams middle age more than unwanted facial hair. One morning in our rental car on our way to get coffee in town, I checked the mirror to make sure there wasn’t anything stuck in my teeth. What I saw in my reflection was far worse than spinach which I haven’t been eating much of anyway due to my fear of explosive diarrhea.

What I saw, in the bright rays of the early morning sun staring back at me, was a long gray hair, and by long, I mean at least three inches long sticking straight out of my neck. I couldn’t let it be. This was not a case of “let them” as Mel Robbins says. Mel is referring to people not hairs anyway. And seeing this was a rental car and not my car, there were no tweezers in the center console. I prayed someone had a pair in their purse. They wouldn’t be as pretty as my pink bedazzled pair that Izzy made me, but they would have to do.

But no one had a pair on them, of tweezers that is, so my nice friends took turns trying to grab it with their fingertips. But the hair couldn’t be plucked. It was stubborn and it was an asshole. With every attempt, it curled further into itself and now resembled an errant pubic hair or a fiddlehead fern. Finally, I managed to grab it with all my might and admiring it in my fingertips, felt a deep sense of relief. Even though my neck was bright red and splotchy, I could now go about my day.

We drank our coffee and then drove out to a beautiful and idyllic part of the island famous for its rose covered cottages, and a beautiful bluff with fluffy and puffy, cotton candy-colored hydrangea.

As we were heading back to our house, my sister’s old Wagoneer, driven by my husband and carrying a number of my family members, ran out of gas. We were stopped on the side of the road where baby deer roamed. While figuring out the next step, I felt called to dance with a beach umbrella. The choreography wasn’t half bad if I do say so myself.

After getting gas for the stranded at a station that wasn’t right around the corner - Nantucket doesn’t have a lot of gas stations, nor does it have stop lights – everyone was starving and thirsty and in need of a nap.

The night before, we stayed up past…get ready…10 PM! We went for a boat ride and wore wigs and then ended up at a bar in town with live music and green tea shots which are not as healthy as they sound.

After standing in line with a gaggle of women in their 20’s and a gigantic plastic bag of wigs, it was Josh who first began distributing them much to the delight of the recipients. There were heart shaped sunglasses as well as short brown and orange curly wigs and bright blue, green, and pink ones. It was a real cornucopia. One young woman said while hugging me, “You’re like my mom”. To which I replied tipsily, “I don’t want to be.”

Josh and my son left when he couldn’t get into the bar. Us gals on the other hand, felt buoyed by our new fun friends half our age, and when they ordered shots, we did too but then needed readers to see the bill. And also, most of us didn’t really drink the shots.

We continued handing out wigs and as the band played country and bluegrass, we felt like the fairy godmothers of wig distribution. Smiling back at us was a sea of brightly colored wigs on bobbing heads dancing to the music.

Then a sweet girl came up to me and asked where she could get a wig. I told her to reach into the big plastic bag, but before she pulled out a wig, she grabbed a straw that said my soon to be age on it. She screamed. I laughed and also maybe cried a little.  

And even though I could hardly hear her and was feeling like it was time to go home and put on my face cream and take my progesterone and magnesium so I could actually sleep, part of me felt like the party was just getting started.  

I made a commitment to myself right then and there that no matter how old I am, or how tired or how many chin hairs I have, that I will try-to the best of my ability-to bring the party. And the wigs.