by Kimi Vesel
I have different hair in each photo on my Hinge profile, so no one can tell for sure what I look like. Call it catfishing, I call it tactical.
I’m platinum blonde when I first meet L in late summer. We eat Greek food on a picnic blanket in the middle of a soccer field, six feet apart. L is tall, sharply dressed, and gregarious. He rolls up his sleeve to show me his newest tattoo, an Andy Warhol portrait all in black and white lines except for a splash of red. The blonde makes me more of a flirt. I lean closer and ask if I can touch it.
The next time I see him, we’re talking in the dark. I’ve given him a spare key to the inside of my head and he’s making himself at home amongst my secrets. I say, “By the way, my hair is fake.” He looks genuinely surprised.
I fall in love with him that night but don’t tell him until New Year’s Eve.
This is the year I start wearing wigs all the time. Each one has its own subtle effect on my personality. Brooklyn is long and curly; she’s boisterous and carefree. She is what I’d look like if I’d never started pulling. Charli is deep brown, almost black. She is edgier, more serrated. Victoria is the blonde with dark roots. She’s my favorite. Victoria reminds me of Elle Woods from Legally Blonde—ditzy on the outside, but in possession of a warm power and self-assurance.
I forget who I am in my natural hair altogether because I am so mortified to wear it in public anymore. But L and I go hiking, so I grit my teeth and leave the wigs at home. While walking in a shroud of trees, he tells me about his ‘Queer Eye Renaissance.’ Because of the Fab Five, he lost weight, changed his personal style, and started taking better care of himself overall. Both of us agree that we wouldn’t recognize each other if we’d met a year or two ago. We are perfectly situated in time.
L has all the qualities I want in a partner, down to the dumb ones. He drinks coffee, listens to hip-hop, and likes to read. He has a car, a good job, and his own place. Above all that, he’s vibrant, like the red stripe in a black-and-white portrait. He’s honest to a fault—so am I. He supplies me with both chaos and comfort abundantly. Together, we could be alone in an empty box for hours and still find entertainment. He may not have known he was waiting to meet me, but I had been comparing everyone I’d ever been with to him for years before I ever saw his face.
Before I know it, the seasons are changing. It becomes too cold to go anywhere, so we admire the city lights from L’s faraway balcony. My wigs get tangled from being continually tossed onto the floor. After a while, the short mop of frizz on my head loses its novelty, so I don’t even bother hiding it anymore. L’s fingers graze through it while we watch movies on the couch, inoculated somehow against the coarse kinks and damaged ends. He says I’m ‘negatively charged’ because I’m so sensitive to touch. He traces lines onto my skin that feel like live wires.
There are still worries I harbor that I don’t expect him to understand. All day long I sprinkle strands of hair over the surfaces of his apartment, and when I see them, I surreptitiously try to sweep them into tumbleweeds to throw away before he sees. Many minutes I could be spending with him are lost to his bathroom mirror, poking at every pore, stepping out pink and inflamed. I worry sometimes that my stresses and sadnesses might be too heavy, even for both of us at once. But I think he sees me for who I really am, and he isn’t scared of me. I always thought I would have to choose between proximity and being understood. I resigned myself to believing it’s too lofty to have both. But now that I have it all, I wouldn’t dare give up either one.
My newest wig is named Tessa. She is carrot-red with shoulder-length waves and long bangs. I buy her because L says he likes the look of frontwomen in pop-punk bands with vibrant hair, and I wear her out to a shindig we go to on New Year’s Day. It is only our second time hanging out around other people as a couple. We are sitting on floral cushions spaced out around a fire pit, holding mugs of spiced cider with both hands, when snow starts to fall. Amid the wash of white, Tessa is the center of attention. I’m warm in my cheeks—I’m in love, after all!
L drives us home in snowy fog. Back in the apartment, those few hours already seem so far removed, I can hardly believe I wasn’t dreaming. It felt natural, perhaps deceivingly so. Taking off the wig is gut-wrenching, like Cinderella when the clock strikes midnight. I’m only myself again.
He asks me what’s wrong.
“I feel stupid for wearing that wig.”
“Why’s that?”
“It was way too flashy. They could definitely tell it wasn’t real. I wish I didn’t have to parade around pretending like this, but my pulling is getting worse and I’m past the point of being able to hide it anymore. I should just shave my head, to be honest, but I can’t bring myself to do that either because then my hair might never grow back at all. I don’t know what to do. I feel so hopeless…”
He sighs and brings me into his arms. “I’m not sure what the right thing to say is, but I really love you.”
Fortunately for him, that was the right thing to say.
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