by Riley Antonacci
Blonde Wig
We’re sitting close together on the leather couch, the dim lighting giving him a mask that helps his confidence grow. His voice gets louder the more he sips on his drink. I look around the bar. Three girls are sitting in the corner, and they laugh as they reminisce about stories from their past. A twinge of jealousy bites me in the stomach, but I will it away as I face him. I don’t know when, but his arm has snaked around my waist. I take this as a cue to lean into him. Close enough where I can feel the last hint of his anxiety melt away, but can’t smell the drink on his breath.
He’s been talking about his recent investments, which usually wouldn’t interest me, but it feels nice to be this close to someone. He runs a hand through my hair, which makes the wig shift and me blush.
“Do you always wear a wig?” He doesn’t seem completely turned off from it. If anything, it causes him to lean in closer. Is he trying to get a better look at it? I shift in my seat and reach for my drink. He can sense my discomfort. “I don’t mean to pry. I think it’s cool, sweetie.” That’s all he had to say for me to sink back into his side.
“I just like them.” There’s a tone of awkwardness that I can’t hide. He hasn’t been the first to ask about my wig, and he definitely won’t be the last. “I’m Caroline, by the way.” I make sure to push my voice up an octave. Caroline is the character I’ll play tonight. She’s innocent in a way that will make him feel more intelligent than me. And she will only drink Sex on the Beaches because the name makes her laugh, and she likes the color of them. I can tell it’s working by the way he calls me names you’d call your cat.
“Jonathan,” he says and holds out his hand. It seems that we both just realized that since he approached me at the bar, we haven’t told each other our names. He had called me pretty and bought me a drink, and asked if we should go somewhere quieter to talk. That’s exactly what I needed—just to talk. But tonight, I’m okay with listening. Being in Jonathan’s presence was enough.
Natural Hair (Top Bun)
I put the wig in the closet with the others, placing it on its designated mannequin head. I close the door so they don’t watch me go about my day. Caroline and I had a great time last night. It only took three Sex on the Beaches before I was comfortable letting him lean in for a kiss. It started slow, but he progressively got firmer, poking his tongue against my mouth, trying to force entry. I was okay with just a quick make-out; I didn’t need things to go further. He seemed frustrated, but ultimately, he was okay with it. I ended the night by giving him a number, not mine, but he was drunk enough not to check.
I open my dresser drawer and analyze the organized pants. I pull out a freshly ironed pair of jeans and slide them on. Coupling them with my mandatory CVS shirt. I’m 26 years old and find myself clocking in amongst my teenage coworkers. I often hear them talk about their plans for the weekend: parties, dates, spending time with friends and family. They talk about the “bitches” that sit behind them in their math class. They have no idea what they’re in for in life.
“What are your plans for the rest of the weekend, Marissa?” one of the teens, Charlotte, asks me. She’s chomping on a piece of chewing gum from the pack I saw her swipe from the front of the registers, and she’s staring at her phone.
“It’s Melissa.” I’ve only been working with her for a year, so I’ll cut her some slack. “I have the day off tomorrow, so I was thinking of hanging out with my friend Scarlette,” I say as I stock the shelves, “Maybe grab a drink or something.” A bright red pair of press-on nails grabs my attention. I can see my reflection in the lacquer.
“I didn’t know you went out.” She snaps a bubble in between her teeth. “Or even had friends.” Before I have a chance to respond, Charlotte is called to the register over the intercom. She starts to walk away from me.
“I do have friends. A lot of them.” She turns around and stares at me with unbothered eyes. The sound of her mauling the gum echoes in my ears.
“‘Kay.” She leaves after another pop of a bubble. I look back at the Ferrari red nails, take them off the shelf, and slip them into my pocket.
Crimson Wig
One of my hands stirs the dirty martini Lucas just ordered for me, the other taps the bar surface rhythmically. The sound of my fresh nails against the wood scratches at a part of my brain that I didn’t know was itchy. Neon lights and old pinball machines illuminate the place. Lucas has been telling me about his job in marketing while he continues to sneak glances at the cleavage I chose to show tonight.
“So, Scarlette, what do you do?” What does Scarlette do? She dresses like a sex worker off duty. I could go that route. But that might scare him away. Maybe she’s the CEO of a tech company. No, not corporate. Don’t give him too many details.
“I’m an artist,” I say as I take a sip of my drink, making sure to leave a smudge of red lipstick on the rim. That seems like something Scarlette would do, leave her mark.
“Uh oh, an artist. I’ve dated one of those before.” Lucas continues to drone on about his failed relationship with a woman who was constantly “in the clouds,” and how “her work wasn’t even that good.” I was initially okay with only talking, but the more he talks about her, the more I need him to want me. He hasn’t even complimented me yet. Does he want to? What made him come up to me in the first place? I watch as he talks, and his eyes wander across the bar. Who is he looking for? A new prospect? I’m not interesting enough. I’m not giving enough.
I move my body so I’m facing him and lean forward just a touch. I comprehend what I think was a joke and let out a laugh. Not too loud to be obnoxious, but loud enough for him to think he’s hilarious. I place my hand on his arm, and now he’s all eyes on me.
Natural Hair (Pony Tail)
I spend my day cleaning my apartment. There’s not much to do; I tend to run a tight ship even if it’s only me in here. You wouldn’t be able to find a speck of dust after I finish sweeping, mopping, and wiping. I save my favorite part for last. I walk to my bedroom and scan around. My comforter is neatly tucked into my bed frame, and there’s not a single wrinkle. The perfume and the little makeup I have are neatly lined up on my vanity. The window is covered with a shade that I bought from the Dollar Store. It allows some light to escape into the room, but no one can see in.
I tiptoe my way to the closet. It’s intended for my personal clothes, but those fit in my dresser. I quietly open the door, not to disturb anyone. I’m met with the collection of wigs I’ve accumulated throughout the years. I have one for every color of the rainbow, and since their last cleaning, I’ve worn all of them once.
I start with the red one I wore a few nights ago. I bring the mannequin head and the wig to my kitchen. I place the head on the counter next to my sink. All of my supplies are stored in a locked cabinet, which I retrieve after entering the code for the lock. These include a comb, detangler, shampoo, and conditioner for human hair wigs. I look at the red hair and think of Lucas. He didn’t even attempt to kiss me. I start to feel angry at the wig; it didn’t do its job. But I take a deep breath and begin.
I take my time with each one. Meticulously going through the steps, making sure to be gentle with all of them—but especially the older ones. My day is filled with colors, artificial and natural. Once I’m done with the final wig, I place it in its rightful spot on the shelf. I stare at all of them, recalling each of their names.
Midnight Blue Wig
I had to wear one of the only dresses I own tonight. The bar I chose is one in the lobby of a fancy hotel. When I Googled it, there were three dollar signs next to the name. Luckily, I plan to pay only for the first drink. The chandeliers above me resemble the pieces from the game Jacks that I used to play as a kid. The memory of playing alone sent a wave of sadness over me. I tried to shake it off, but all I can see are the other children in the yard denying my invitation to join.
“Can I get a Dark and Stormy, please?” I say once the bartender approaches me. He gives a slight nod as he walks away. I look down at my hands and try to wipe the images of many recesses out of my head. When my drink is placed in front of me, I chug half of it, making sure to leave some left. I twist in my seat, looking out at the crowded restaurant. Almost everyone is in semi-formal attire, but they still look expensive. The hum of conversation fills the air. That’s when I notice that nearly everyone isn’t alone. They all have someone.
I look down the length of the bar and find a man sitting by himself looking at his phone. His brows are creased in concentration. His suit is nice enough, but it doesn’t look as expensive as the other ones here. I look down at my own dress. It’s black and silky, almost mimicking a night gown that I’m sure some of these women wear to bed. Do they know I got it from a thrift store? Did someone put it on the wrong rack? Is my dress supposed to be pajamas?
All of a sudden, it feels like everyone’s eyes are on me, except when I look up, there’s only one set. The man from across the bar issues me a soft smile and raises his drink—a silent salute to being the only ones by themselves. My nerves wash away, and I debate walking over to him. But I’m never the one to approach first.
Unfortunately, even if I wanted to, a woman approaches the man. He stands up to greet her, wrapping an arm around her and giving her a small peck on the lips. That’s when I see his ring, and hers is basically reflecting the light into my eye—a spotlight on the girl who is entirely alone.
Natural Hair (Down)
I stand at the register and watch as Charlotte helps a customer find a product he’s looking for. The customer is a young guy; he can’t be more than two years older than her. He watches Charlotte as she points to the correct toothpaste and tries to walk away. He stops her and mumbles something quietly under his breath. He hands her his phone, and she types something in. I have a feeling he didn’t need help finding toothpaste.
She walks behind the counter and to the register next to me. She’s looking down at her phone and has a slight smile on her face.
“Did you know him?” I ask, nodding to the customer walking out. She looks up to see who I’m talking about.
“Oh, him? No.” She looks back down at her phone. I can see she’s texting someone, a guy named Ezra. By the looks of it, they’ve been texting for a while, so it couldn’t have been the one who just walked out of the store.
“Does that happen a lot?” Charlotte is a pretty girl. She never wears makeup to work, and even I can appreciate how naturally pretty she is. Today, she has the top half of her hair pulled out of her face, and all of her features are on display. I’m sure there are plenty of guys out there who think the same.
“Yeah, I guess.” She’s not interested in this conversation at all. I want to ask more questions. How many dates has she been on? How many boyfriends has she had? I know she’s a high school senior, so prom must be coming up. Does she have a date? I don’t realize I’ve been staring at her until she looks up at me. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“No. Sorry. I zoned out.” She walks away without a response. I’m left to think about how many men approach me at the bar, and how many approach me in real life. Why haven’t I attempted to keep one of them around?
Natural Hair (Five Years Ago)
It’s the night of graduation, and I’m sitting at the bar. Apparently, this is where everyone has been going for the past four years; they don’t check IDs. I heard about an “After-Grad” party happening here, but it’s nine o’clock, and no one has shown up yet. Did I miss it? I play with the straw in my drink.
About 45 minutes pass when I hear the bell on the door jingle. I keep my head down, making sure not to draw any attention to myself. I hear a familiar voice ordering a drink relatively close to me. When I look, I see Aaron.
He was in the Anthropology class I had to take to finish my general education requirements. He sat directly in front of me. I remember feeling special, as if he had chosen to sit there because of me. But then he started talking to the guy next to him.
For the first few weeks, he didn’t pay me any mind. One day, he asked me to send him the notes for our next class. He wouldn’t be there because of a doctor’s appointment, and he gave me his phone number. When the day came, I wrote down almost everything our professor said. I highlighted everything I thought was important so he wouldn’t miss anything.
He responded to the pictures of the notes with “thx :).” This happened a few times throughout the semester: he’d miss a class, I’d take his notes, and in return, he would send me words of appreciation, accompanied by an emoji. On the last day of class, he told me he wouldn’t have passed without me.
That was the first semester of senior year. I never heard from him again. Now that I’m looking at him at the bar, a spark of hope runs through my body. Will he approach me and initiate a conversation? Ask me how my final semester was? I’m staring at him, and he catches me. This is it. I ready myself for him by taking a quick sip of my drink. But he only offers me a small wave and gets lost in a different conversation with his friends.
Plum Wig
I’m back at the same bar I met Jonathan at. My goal for tonight is to bring someone home. I think of my empty apartment, how much brighter it would be if someone else were in it. I scan the area and spot what resembles a bachelor party, sitting at the table in the corner. All of the men seem to be around my age, maybe a little older. I look at each of their faces. Some of them seem tired; it’s a Friday night, perhaps they’ve just come from their office jobs. Some appear as though they just woke up an hour ago, ready to face the night ahead of them. But one of them catches my eye. He’s tall and wears the brightest smile out of all of them. He’s dressed perfectly for this bar, jeans and a nice button-up shirt. I wonder if he googled pictures of the place before coming. If he spent time finding the perfect outfit as I did. When I get a better look at him, I realize it’s Aaron.
Their table is almost completely covered with empty glasses, and I hear him offer to cover the next round. I face the bar again so he doesn’t see me watching as he approaches. I play with the stem of my red wine, swirling the liquid around in the glass, acting like I’m lost in space.
“Cool hair.” I hear behind me. It’s him. I keep my head down and thank him, keeping my attention on the glass. Denying all feelings of eagerness that are coursing through my body. He orders his drinks and accepts them from the bartender. I quietly hope he won’t walk away. “Are you here by yourself?” he asks.
“I am. I had a long day at the office,” I lie. Why did I do that? I quickly look at him and offer him a shy smile. I want him to stay, but I don’t want him to see me like this. How is he even here? I thought he had moved away after college.
“Wait, you look familiar. Do I know you?” My heart is about to break my rib cage. The few sips of wine I’ve had try to force their way back up. “Holy shit, you’re Melanie, aren’t you?”
I debate on what to do. Do I tell him the truth? But then I’d have to answer questions about the wig, about not having anyone in my life. Do I deny it? I think back to Charlotte, who is nothing but authentic to herself—the people who gravitate towards her because of it.
“It’s Melissa.” Finally finding the courage to make proper eye contact, I bring my eyes from my wine to him. His eyes widen only enough that it could have gone unnoticed. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.
“With the hair change, I almost didn’t recognize you,” he says, looking at the wig, “You don’t strike me as the crazy color type.” All I hear is that he would have recognized me if I looked like me. And that he remembers who I am.
“Oh, it’s just something I’m trying. I wanted to step out of-” Before I can finish my sentence, I’m interrupted. A hand is slapped on Aaron’s shoulder, and when I see who it is, he’s not any of the people he had come with tonight.
“Careful with her. When I met her, she was blonde and gave me a fake phone number. She can’t be trusted, buddy.” Jonathan is slurring his words and using Aaron as support to help him stand. It feels like all of the blood in my body has frozen in place. I open my mouth to say something, but what is there to say? Aaron is looking back and forth between the two of us. “She’ll let you cop a feel and makeout with her, but that’s all she wants. Fuckin’ tease.”
Jonathan takes his arm off of Aaron and places it on the bar behind me. I feel trapped in my skin. I want to run, but I’m unable to. Aaron is looking at us with confusion.
“The purple doesn’t suit you, sweetie.” He runs a clammy finger through one of the locks. Tears prick at my eyes.
“Listen, I was just grabbing a drink and saw an old friend. I don’t mean to get in the middle of anything,” Aaron says.
Finally, I find words. “No. It’s not like that,” I say desperately. I wasn’t even able to talk to Aaron or explain myself before he walks away.
“Too bad.” It’s the last thing I hear Jonathan say before I run out of the bar. Alone.
Natural Hair (Untouched)
I wasn’t supposed to be at work today, but I couldn’t stand being in my apartment. I’ve let the dust settle, and dishes pile up. I haven’t been able to sleep since the night with Aaron, thinking about what he’s thinking of me. I’m stocking the shelves, not caring about whether anything is in the right place.
“That doesn’t go there,” Charlotte says, grabbing the box of tampons I had just placed where the shaving cream should go. She puts them in their correct spot and looks at me. “Jesus, you do look bad. Everyone has been saying it, but I figured your jeans weren’t ironed or something.
“People are talking about me?” I look at her, her face is twisted, and she almost goes to fix it, but then realizes she doesn’t care if I see. She tells me how people are noticing that I’m not doing the job right. They heard about when I snapped at a customer when they asked me where something was.
“Be careful, one more bad move and you might be out of here.” She starts to walk away. Why does she care? It’s not like me being here affects her in any way. She stops walking and turns to me. “Listen, clean yourself up. Maybe do something for yourself. It’s clear you’re really out of it right now, but you wouldn’t be working at CVS if you didn’t need it.” She’s not entirely wrong. I do need my job here. This is the only income I have because I couldn’t find a job after school, and I gave up trying.
I continue to stare at her, not being able to muster the right words to say. I want to ask her how she manages to do it. She’s true to herself and seems not to care what people think of her. She doesn’t worry about having to be alone; every time I work with her, she barely has the time to look up from her texts.
As if she’s reading my mind, she says, “I can show you some of my favorite things we have in the store. We get a good discount, so makeup is basically free. It also helps if you scan the cheapest thing instead of your most expensive one.” She’s trying to joke, but I can’t find my laugh. She has never cared about me before, so why now?
“Why are you trying to help me? Don’t you have bigger things to worry about?”
“Honestly, seeing you like this is like looking at a sad puppy. I don’t care why you’re upset, but you’re really ruining my vibe.” Her vibe? What does that even mean? Now, I laugh.
“I’m not kidding,” she says, with a slight look of disgust, “You need to fix something, and you need to fix it now.” Her caring tone is gone, but I can’t help but feel like she genuinely wants to help me. Is someone finally trying to take care of me?
I enter my apartment with a heavy bag of makeup. I feel slightly guilty for using Charlotte’s technique at the register, but she was having fun. I empty everything onto my bed, determined to organize it all on my vanity. Until I see the plum wig on the floor of my bedroom. I haven’t touched it since that night. I can feel myself fill with rage. I don’t know what I’m angry at, but I direct it towards the wig. I pick it up off the floor and bring it to the kitchen, where I find a pair of scissors. Without any hesitation, I cut, and I snip, and I hack.
I go back to the closet and grab the red one off the mannequin’s head. Cut. Snip. Hack. I do this to all of them. Tears roll down my face, and I can’t stop. I feel confused and angry. I feel like I’ve lost someone. Sobs escape with each slice of the scissors.
I go to the closet to retrieve the last one, but as I look at it, I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m standing in front of the wig, covered in multi-colored hair, crying.
Brown Wig (Half Up- Half Down)
I don’t remember falling asleep last night, but when I woke up, my back was pressed against my bed frame, and I’m holding the brown wig in my hand. I pick myself off the floor and place the wig on the mannequin head, and close the door. I went to my kitchen and saw the massacre I left for myself.
I spent the day sweeping, dusting, and mopping. There are no traces of what had happened last night. A part of me feels embarrassed, like it was an overreaction. But another part of me feels relieved, as though I ended a chapter of my life. But after the day of cleaning, I promised myself one more night.
Now I’m sitting at my vanity, lathering my face with the new makeup I bought. Concealer to hide the bags under my eyes. Blush to bring color back to my face. Mascara to brighten, bronzer to tan, setting spray to lock it in. When I pick my outfit, I pick something I would want to wear. Not something Scarlette, or Iris, or anyone else would want. I feel comfortable in my own skin.
Once I’m dressed, I head to my closet, taking the brown wig to my vanity. I sit down and go through my usual process. I look in the mirror and practice my smile, only this time it doesn’t feel like practice. The smile naturally grows on my face and stays there.
I’m sitting at a new bar, one that I’ve always wanted to go to, but never fit my vibe. I sit at a high top this time and wait for a server to take my order. I order a Margarita because I’ve always wanted to try one.
This time, I don’t wait to be approached; I’m there for me. So, when it happens, I’m shocked.
A man, who doesn’t hurt to look at, sits in the other chair in front of me. A part of me applauds him for being brave, another finds it strange that he thought this would be appropriate. “Hi. Can I help you?” I say with a touch of apprehension in my voice.
“I was curious as to why a pretty girl like you is sitting by herself. Waiting on anyone?” He’s confident; clearly, this isn’t his first rodeo.
“Nope. I just wanted to take some time for myself.” I’m not sure if this is my way of asking him to leave. But, I also can’t tell if I want him to stay.
He extends his hand over the table, nearly knocking over my margarita. He wants a handshake, how formal.
“My name is William,” he says, waiting for me to answer. I toy with the idea. One more time couldn’t hurt, and it doesn’t have to leave this bar. Just one more time, and then I’ll stop. I can stop.
I reach out my hand and put it in his. I lightly shake it. “I’m Charlotte.”
Author Bio
Riley Antonacci is a fiction writer and graduate student whose work explores the modern fears women face. She focuses on the quiet violence of relationships within domestic spaces. She has been previously published for her creative and academic work. She is currently pursuing her master’s degree while also working as a Graduate Assistant. She’s working towards completing her thesis and graduating this spring. When she isn’t writing, she reads thrillers, watches true-crime documentaries, and spends time with her family.
Instagram: @rileyantonacci
