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Wigging Out

It sounds silly, but we all wonder: Would changing my hair change my life?

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  • Upon reaching my apartment, however, I found a sleek Upper East Side blond staring back at me in the bathroom mirror. The panic had been a false one; Zoe's wigs were way too good to look fake. I got a beer from the fridge and started pacing, trying to relax into my new hair. But pacing and beer didn't feel right either. I looked in the mirror again. Before me stood a pampered platinum princess clutching a Budweiser next to a stack of dirty clothes. My brain flashed the system error message. Women—like me?—with hair like this do not drink domestic beer from a can in Chinatown apartments. They drink kir royales at Le Bilboquet.

    But there wasn't time for another mini crisis. I'd made dinner plans with six friends at an East Village barbecue joint. After pouring the rest of my beer down the drain, I changed into jeans, spiky heels, and a beige silk top with gold chains for straps. With my customary brown hair, the outfit might have looked cheerful and celebratory. On a blond, it screamed mail-order bride. What the hell? I winced in the mirror, and then I went to dinner.

Wigging Out
It sounds silly, but we all wonder: Would changing my hair change my life?
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