Confessions of a Prairie Bitch by Alison Arngrim Page A

covered with what looked like the symbols a coach would draw on a blackboard to illustrate a football play. They carefully pulled off the cap, and Ziggy put it in his case to take back to his “laboratory” or wherever he made these things. Then Ziggy pulled out the hair samples, not small samples, but huge, thick blond locks of real human hair. Larry told me that this was “Swedish virgin hair.” I snorted, and Larry, seeing that I was already going there, made a crack about not knowing there were that many virgins in Sweden. He then explained that this, of course, really meant the hair was “untouched”—it had never been dyed or processed in any way.
    They held up all these different curls against my hair. They were matching it, not all at once, but strand by strand, shade by shade. Everybody has more than one color of hair, and mine ranged from very light Malibu Barbie blond to much darker “dishwater.” He and Ziggy found a hunk of hair for every single color on my head. They explained that these would be mixed together, then tiny strands would be individually hand tied to the base, which would be constructed using the custom design they had just drawn on my head.
    I have no idea what this thing actually cost, but I was told that at that time, it was considered one of the most expensive wigs ever designed for a TV show. And they were going to strap this thing to my head every day. Gee, no pressure at all!
    When it finally arrived, I had to admit, it was fantastic. It shone and shimmered, as if it were alive. It was thick and heavy. It fit my head perfectly, having been custom fitted to the last millimeter. But I wasn’t prepared for the metal comb. They’d mentioned the comb, of course, in the fitting, but I had no understanding of what that meant. The metal comb is what kept the whole thing in place. It was a hunk of steel with teeth, like the ominous metal contraption in a parking lot entrance where the sign reads DO NOT BACK UP. It had precisely the same effect. As Gladys or Larry would place the wig on my head, I would hold the front, and they would pull the whole thing down in the back tightly onto my head. The metal comb would then be jammed into the base of the hair, at the very front of my hairline, right smack in the middle of the top of my forehead. Even after this, dozens of hairpins were strategically placed to hold it on.
    The number of pins was impressive. First, my real hair was coiled and wrapped around my head and pinned in place. Then a nylon stocking cap went on over that, and more pins were added, both little bobby pins and those old-fashioned long, straight metal hairpins. Lots and lots of them. There was a minimum number of hairpins that had to be inserted to hold the wig steady, and if they weren’t jammed in tightly and in contact with my scalp, it wouldn’t stay on.
    Two small pieces of hair were pulled out, one on each side to be combed into the wig. These were curled with the hot iron, making me look like an Orthodox rabbinical student with side curls and a yarmulke. My head would have easily set off a metal detector. The metal comb in front was the only way to hold it in place during all the mud fights and running around. And yes, it hurt all day. Not excruciatingly so; that was just in the morning when it first went on. But there was no point at which it felt comfortable, or when I didn’t turn my head a certain way and feel the pins dig in.
    The worst was lying down. If I had to lie down and put my head on a pillow in a scene, or if I tried to lie down for real and get in a nap at lunchtime, it took great effort to position my head just so as to not crush the bobby pins against my scalp, or to pull it on one side, causing the comb to rip into my flesh and pull my hair out.
    We found ways to have fun with the wig. When Gladys was having a hard time putting it on, she would sing and encourage me to sing along. I had to hold the front with the comb very tightly while she pulled it