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In the Beginning, Man Created a Wig/Zael
I hated my life.
Not that there had been that much of it already: the factory, where I was first created, a package along with some others of my kind, a large storage room, and now a dark box in the back of a van. This place was the oddest of all the others I had visited, as me and my kind were also accompanied by numerous pin stripe suits and pairs of gloves.
But I still hated my life, and perhaps more so after I had seen what was likely to be the rest of the costume.
You see, everything man creates he creates for a purpose. He doesn’t even realise it, but this purpose gives these things life, so that they can adequately carry out the tasks they are given. Most items get depressed when they are not needed for their purpose for long periods of time, and some go mad and stop working. I am a wig, and as such I like to be sitting comfortably on my owner’s head, protecting them from embarrassment. Unfortunately for me, I am a white wig.
As you will well know, there are many types of wigs, from blond wigs to brown wigs, short wigs to long wigs, and curly wigs to straight wigs. At the very top of the wig hierarchy are the Big Wigs, and at the other end of the spectrum there’s us – Halloween wigs.
That’s what they had called us at the factory, anyway. All the wigs that were just too silly to be worn in public by any sane person except for one night of the year, when children and adults alike pranced about making fools of themselves, trying to see who could look the worst. This presents two problems for whatever it is that acts as a mind for us wigs. The first being that we are locked up for almost an entire year without being worn. The second, and more serious, is that we don’t actually want to be worn. So, I hated my life. What else could we be for but a Halloween costume, especially combined with the pinstripes and the gloves?
The journey in the van was nerve-wracking all the same. Which is odd, since I’m not sure we wigs have nerves. Nobody spoke, deep in their own thoughts and not wishing to break the silence, and each hoping and praying that we weren’t going to end up in a party costume store.
When the van shuddered to a halt it was almost a relief to know that whatever fate was to befall us would be revealed soon. Our crate was lifted from the van and we were jostled about, murmured apologies accompanying echoing footsteps.
“Just leave it here, Mr Eckhart will get it in the morning.” Said one of the crate-carriers, and we were dropped unceremoniously onto the floor.
A wave of ‘Mr Eckhart must be the manager’ and ‘Anyone seen a watch? How long is it until morning?’ passed through the crate. It was soon decided that it couldn’t be very late, and morning would be a long time in coming for us. For a while there was some debating as to who this ‘Mr Eckhart’ was, but soon enough everyone settled down again. We were all very surprised only a few hours later to hear a lone set of footsteps coming toward us. They paused beside our crate, and only moments later the lid was pulled off and we all got our first good view of the mysterious ‘Mr Eckhart’.
For who else could it be, already wearing the pinstripe suit, black gloves, and white wig? I also noted he was wearing slightly tinted glasses. At first I was shocked, as this man was so unimaginably alien to anything I had previously witnessed I was almost struck down. The shock soon passed to horror, as I realised that this man looked like this every day, and not just for Halloween. I wondered about the ridicule I was sure to be subjected to, and couldn’t help but think…
Oh dear god.
~*~*~
The first positive point I saw about him was his wardrobe – all the suits, gloves, and wigs each had their own space and all were arranged perfectly. So the man knew how to organise.
Before going anywhere near his wardrobe, we had all been washed thoroughly with disinfectant. We had all heard horror stories at the factory of what the wrong type of wash could do to clothes and wigs, but our fibres were surprisingly strong. That was the only time we had been out of the wardrobe, except for those that had been chosen to be worn. Afterwards, they were disinfected again and returned to the wardrobe. We all thought they had gone mad, as they kept saying how good it felt to be worn by him. Mad, after just one day? It would only take a few more days of waiting and some poor wig’s hair would start to fall out.
It was about a week after we first arrived that I was selected. I was apprehensive, but resigned to my fate. At least, it seemed, if I went mad I would be happy, and that’s more than could be said for any other time in my life.
I tightened up while I was being fitted onto his head, not bearing to look and see what I had become. Realising I couldn’t go through life like that, I finally looked into the eyes that were reflected in the mirror in front of me.
What I saw there I have not seen in any other human being, before or since. There was a cold, detached layer on the surface, warning people against looking further. Beneath that the pride of the man and his iron will shone through. Straining to look further, I saw a kindness and a sadness that lay at the heart of this man. This man, who wore me atop his head as though I were a crown, standing defiant before those who would see him fall (and step over him while he lay on the landing of the stair in need of help).
I felt a sense of fulfilment that I could not explain until later when he was going over some order forms in his office. Order forms requesting specifically made garments to suit the owner’s needs. And I understood: I was doing what I was made to do, and I was enjoying doing it.
Since then, life has been good.
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