Free The Girl With Nine Wigs by Sophie van der Stap Page B

Don’t have to contemplate my career, don’t have to become someone important, don’t have to learn things for later. I just have to get through the day. Why study for a future that might turn out completely different? Better to focus on the present, which I know is real. It’s time for some reflection. Time to get up close and personal. Starting with my very own scalp. I’m still hiding her.

 
    TUESDAY, APRIL 12
    A LTHOUGH EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT, some things really do never change. Like peeing in the shower. I love stepping into a warm shower in the morning and letting it all go. Yesterday I ate asparagus and was reminded of that in the shower this morning. Beyond that, though, a morning ritual is something I’ve never known. The secrets behind all those color tablets and the proper makeup techniques have always been a mystery to me. I can barely manage mascara on a regular basis. Let alone nail polish. I used to like to spend my mornings in a café with the newspaper and a coffee.
    But that was then.
    Now I’ve become one of those women who have exchanged the au naturel look for powders and brushes. I start with my eyebrows. I was born with full, bushy brows, but now they are completely gone. With my special brush—which cost me forty-two euros!—I carefully color in where I think my arches used to be. Next up is eyeliner. There are no eyelashes left to lengthen, but eyeliner helps create the illusion. When the painting and coloring is done I look to my wigs. Stella is not an option; she looks as cancerous as my bald head. Which leaves Daisy, Sue, or Blondie. But for some reason they won’t do today. I want to be someone else. Someone bold, someone from a faraway country, someone unknown.
    I gulp down the last of my tea, take my bike, and park it ten minutes later in front of the door of my favorite store. I’m starting to enjoy this metamorphosis game. Shopping at the theater-supply store is not that different from shopping at H&M. I need a hairdo with a long fringe to cover the skin where my eyebrows once were. In a corner I see a Mia Wallace—Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction —look-alike. I try it on. The cut is exactly what I need. The black color is too severe for me, but luckily she comes in different colors. In an auburn tan she works wonders on my pale skin. The long strands fall over my shoulders, while the fringe covers part of my eyes.
    â€œWe can easily adjust that for you, just a little trim.”
    â€œHow much is this one?” I ask.
    â€œFifty-two fifty.”
    I look up in surprise. This is by far the cheapest wig I have gotten so far. Who would have thought that Uma, aka Miss Mia Wallace, would be so affordable?
    Beside me a dark-skinned woman is trying on wigs too, but for funnier reasons than cancer. I hear her talking about a fancy party. She tucks her Afro under a shiny white bob. The synthetic glow almost hurts my eyes, but the effect is amazing.
    â€œCould I try that one as well?” I ask. Although the color works differently on my skin than it does on hers, I immediately love the wig. She makes me look like an outsider, something I’ve been fighting against ever since I got sick. But she also seems like someone who doesn’t care that she is. And on the spot, wearing her, I don’t either. I call her Platina.
    â€œThat’ll be fifty-two fifty plus sixty-six … one-eighteen fifty. The hair spray is on the house, for preferred customers.” The salesman winks at me.
    I walk out wearing Platina. It doesn’t get more obvious than this. With Platina, I’m not hiding, I’m showing off. I never thought I’d find wearing a wig fun, but it is. Six wigs, six names, six times as many friends and admirers. Six subcharacters, and behind each of them a little piece of Sophie. An insecure Sophie: Stella. A sensual Sophie: Uma. A headstrong Sophie: Sue. A thoughtful Sophie: Blondie. A fun-loving Sophie: