I’ve been wearing a wig for months and nobody knows

Since February, I’ve been undercover. Or my hair has, anyway.

It all happened when I decided in the middle of one night I needed a trim. I’m stingy, so I didn’t think of going to a hairdresser like any sane person would. I had brunette locks that reached my back, but they were getting damaged with all my daily blow-drying. My reasoning was to prevent more damage, I’d at least need to take the ends off.

I stood with my face to the mirror, weapon at the ready. I picked up a clump of hair on the side of my head. The scissors closed on it. This was easy. I could do this. I should have been a hairdresser!

Little did I know, my fate had been sealed between those blades. My life as a secret wig-wearer had begun.

The next morning, I calmly observed I’d fucked it all up. I was trying not to scream. I had the kind of hair that suited a new-born chicken.

I tried rocking it, at least just for the day. It was a very tiny bob, putting it generously. The back of it reached the middle of my ears, and the front reached the length of my chin.

This was after hours of styling and a half a can of hairspray

Not that I’m knocking short hair here, it was just a middle finger to my own beauty standards. It simply didn’t suit me. I was destined to be a long-haired lady.

I ordered a mid-length synthetic kanekalon wig from a store on Amazon – £20, they’d had some great customer reviews. Three days later, I ripped open the Amazon package with glee, and examined my newfound freedom. The colour wasn’t quite what it had seemed online, but I didn’t care. I had my long locks back.

I managed to cut the first wig I bought into my original style (oh, the irony). I’m currently on my third.

The best thing was, weirdly, nobody had even noticed I was suddenly a long blonde whereas I’d been a short brunette only yesterday. Even the people that had commented on my botched cut originally.

I told my mum, who thought it was a good idea once she’d seen my hair underneath. Another person I told was a good friend of mine. He oddly liked the pictures I’d sent of my ‘botched’ hair.

For months onwards he proceeded to tell everyone I met I was wearing a wig, ‘outing’ my cringe-worthy secret. I lived in fear of him doing this. There’s a funny social stigma against wigs.

Hiding the truth: this auburn one is incredibly similar to my old hair, so not many people have noticed

One thing I want to reflect on throughout my wiggy experience is this: Did it really matter? Probably not.

Let’s face it. My friends, family (except probably my mum), and the general public aren’t likely to care about the state of my bonce. I know now that I was being pathetic about it: my self esteem isn’t brilliant. My boyfriend still prefers me to take off my wig because he likes my natural hair. And I’ve wasted money on three wigs.

On the other hand, I’ve saved a significant amount in hairdressing appointments (not like I was going anyway, but still), dye, hairspray, styling paraphernalia and Batiste.

I also get out the door swiftly now, as opposed to spending half an hour styling. In this respect, wigs get points for their practical uses. Another great thing is I can finally see my natural hair colour. The dark brunette I originally had was a dye job; I’ve been every colour under the sun but my own.

My progress so far: I finally went to a hairdresser, but I’m still mourning my original locks.

I still wear them every day, I’ve become slightly dependant. Despite the initial itchiness, I got used to it really easily, and it stays on incredibly well. Ideal for 2am drunken head-banging at Purple Turtle.

Regardless, I’ve vowed that for this September, my disguise will be abandoned. I’m almost at shoulder-length; I need to appreciate my real hair. I’ll never cut it off myself again. Mum has banned my boyfriend from cutting it too.