The Wig Years: A Tale of Three Strands

       Hey people. So I haven’t posted in a while (probably more than a while), and I have no one to blame but myself. My hiatus was for two prominent reasons: my extreme laziness and also, I had problems putting down the posts in my head into words. I found out later that this was because I had been trying to write a “nice” post, and nice here does not refer to a good, excellent and well put together post. No. I had been trying to write in a friendly and acceptable way that wouldn’t offend anyone and would be approved by everyone. School had been quite tasking and I stopped writing for a while, and there I must have lost the reason why I wrote. So when I resumed writing, I did so forgetting the purpose of my blog, that it wasn’t for giving good advice or a nice observation or a pleasant comment, that it was about me simply sharing my perspective and giving my opinion on issues that bothered me. I’m over all that now, thankfully.
           Another reason I did not include above is my accident. Close to the end of the last school semester, about 2 months ago, just as I was done crossing the road, a bike came out of nowhere and hit me; I flew up in the air and landed on the floor unconscious (according to friends who were present, whose accounts may not be devoid of extras and additions). I’ll start from the beginning. Two days after our last exams for the semester, two of my friends and I decided to go and see a movie at night, get to enjoy the whole late night movie experience. We left our hostels around 7pm and as were on our way, we got to know that the price of refreshments at the cinema was double the normal price. After we screamed out of shock, we proceeded to a kiosk to buy supplies, being drinks and popcorn, which we planned to smuggle into the cinema room. We took a cab which dropped us in front of the mall and that is as far as I can remember.
           According to one of my friends present, B, who is fair skinned, emotional and championed the cause to smuggle supplies into cinema room, we all crossed the first lane successfully but just as we were done crossing the second lane, a bike appeared out of nowhere and hit me. She claims that as the bike man sped away, l lay unconscious on the floor. She also claims to have been terrified. In the midst of everyone’s shock, a man came along and carried me with suspicious zeal and energy, shouting that there was no time and he had to get me to a hospital. She thanked him and told him not to worry, that a cab was on its way. She claims she is Ijebu, her head is clear even in the midst of a crisis, he could have been a kidnapper for all she knew, after all this is Nigeria. Not much longer, a kind cab driver stopped and helped them take me to the nearest hospital. There, the nurses stitched up a bleeding cut on my head.
            The next thing I remember after getting down from the cab is waking up at home two days later with a large bandage on my head and half of my hair gone, clean shaven. I asked my younger sisters what had happened and they related the accident tale to me, amid laughter at my bewildered look whilst they were speaking to me. They told me of how weak I was the first night I got home and how they had to tell all my friends who kept calling that I was alright. They laughed as they told me of how cranky I was the days after, screaming at anyone who came to disturb me while I lay in bed. But most of all, they laughed at my hair, or half hair as they called it, and some three strands left at the sides. I will return to the story of the three strands. After they told me all that had happened, I felt a wave of emotions. I was grateful to God that I was alive and well, for protecting tiny little me. I felt overwhelmed as my friends and classmates frequently called and visited to check if I was still breathing. Then I was angry. I was angry at the nurses who shaved half of my hair to stitch a tiny wound, but that was not the major reason for my anger. What fueled my anger were the three strands of hair the nurses had left unshaven at the now hairless side of my head, as if the nurses were trying to send me a message, that they had the power to do and undo.
         Soon enough I recovered but my hair did not, and the beginning of the new school semester was near. I decided to shave off the other half of my hair, to give my hair a uniform look as well as try out a new look. Also, I bought a wig. I resumed school and for a while I enjoyed the safety of my wig. That was until I carried out a self-examination and realized that there was no reason why I couldn’t present my hair the way it was, cut, with the three strands and all, why I needed the wig. So the next week, I did without the wig and expectedly, a lot people came to me lamenting and asking why I had cut my hair. I told most people the truth, that I did because I felt like, and sometimes when the questions started to irritate me, I told them I went to jail. It was then I realized that sometimes we choose to do things, not for general approval, but for ourselves, and its okay. I am mine before I am ever anyone else’s. I felt freer than I had in a long time, like the very existence of my cut hair was an act of rebellion. So this is for guys who want to join the choir or go to culinary school and girls who want to learn how to play drums and are worried about people saying they look too feminine or masculine. We’re human, and sometimes we’re not sure and we get scared, and it’s okay; I wore a wig. The people whose comments we’re dreading don’t know what they’re talking about half of the time, most speak just to have something to say. In the end everyone returns to drinking water and paying attention to their lives.
           As regards the accident, till this day I cannot remember what happened, even though there are cracks in my spirit and stitches on my head. Now I make jokes about going to sue the nurse and how we never got to eat our cinema supplies. But it takes me longer to cross the road now than it did before and I secretly hope I see the bike man who hit me if perhaps that would me trigger my memory to remember what happened. My greatest fear is that I will never forget. read more...