Part 1

Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful ...
Neither was I. I was never mistaken at my own expense. Strictly speaking, I had three women's treasures: thick blond hair (from my mother), a slim figure of unusually high growth for my family (unclear from where) and large gray eyes (of mixed origin). It's not much, but, as it's said - the main thing is to show it from the right side.
With such a meage assortment of beauties, hair loss seemed a big problem. The first "red" chemistry. Two weeks of waiting and hope. Strange in my situation, despair ("she thinks how to survive, and she cries about her hair ..."). Preliminary excursion on postiger salons. And the day X, when all of my hair left me. Oh, my beauty and pride, luxury of silver to the waist, how can I live without them?

And postiguere salon again. A delicate deeply pregnant counselor girl offers to sobbing me a tea with sweets. What is she doing here, in this sea of ​​fear and grief, in which her clients are drowning? Why is she brings here her unborn child? She should look at the beautiful and bathe him in love and happiness.
The process of shaving the rest of the hair, strangely enough, brought relief. There was something ritual in it. It's not my hair, but my whole life, long and tangled, was shifted by the knives of an electric razor, strayed into dense lumps and fell on the floor behind my back. I still did not dare to look at myself "naked",and turned to the mirror only to evaluate the next wig.

I went out from the salon very different. The wig tightened my head, but looked very good. Elongated square with bangs. Perfectly straight hair. Almost like the heroine of Julia Roberts in the movie "Pretty Woman". In the tabloid period of her life. I wanted to buy boots unbearably. Or start smoking... Long thin cigarettes... Maybe even with a mouthpiece. To pull the "Angelica" languidly and put only the scarlet tips of the cold fingers into the proposed palm. I was no longer me. A thin asexual creature with frightened eyes. My femininity existed separately and was weared at will, as equipment of the paratrooper. Even a helmet (of hair) was in stock. It's only the beginning…

"Postiguere" - sounds funny. In a rich way. Something in tune with "prestige", "Paris" and the like .. Ellochka Ogre would definitely like it. I had suspicions that this smart and not familiar word cunning marketers try to disguise the horror of what is happening in the lives of their customers and even give it a certain elitism. In the title "shop of wigs" there is something carnival, not corresponding solemnity of the moment. But change the title to the "postiguere salon Olivia" and, voila, - no longer bald thin woman, gray after chemotherapy, wanders to buy a piece of foreign (if there is money) or artificial hair, but an aristocratically pale lady in a mink coat, tired of balls and appointments , goes to update the "coiffure" to add a pepper to the relationship with the young lover. And let other salons die of envy...