I mean we’ve all had wigs in our lives. Am I right? I remember my first wig. It was a purple pink cotton candy dream. Each day, I’d carefully brush it and place it delicately on my head. It smelled of lovely polyester and thread, with a faint hint of county fair. No one could understand this wig. Nor could they appreciate the beauty it radiated as it glistened in the sun, for, yes, wigs do glisten if you look closely enough.
Each day I was graced by its purple presence until…its untimely death. I felt as though Wig (as I had named it) had grown too beautiful. With daily brushings and re-glittering, I could see its beauty rising. And I knew that one day, it would fade in color and carny smell and would then collapse in sadness, no longer able to glisten. I put it out of its misery and flushed it down the toilet. Wig would reach the heavens and all angels would gasp and tremble in awe at its humble magnificence.
My parents had to call the handyman later that day since Wig had clogged up the plumbing.