Introduction

"...A quirky, clever memoir." Kirkus Reviews

You want your hair to be perfect to show the true you. But without the hair on your head, who are you? What if it is somebody else's hair?

In this beautifully written, heartfelt, witty, and life-affirming memoir, Stacy Harshman tracks her amazing experiment. By wearing dramatic, identically styled but differently colored wigs for weeks in New York City, Stacy Harshman learns more about who she is and what she can find in herself as a redhead, a raven-haired goth, a brunette, and a blonde.
After hiring a spy to document how people responded to her, Stacy realizes how her hair is woven into every aspect of her life: her self-image, her depression, and her relationships. Changing her hair changed how she approached all of them.
By turns rapturous, rueful, and riotous, this wise and funny book charts the story of one woman's way to shake it up, change it all, and discover something new about herself.

Editorial Review

No editorial review at this time.

Excerpt

Chapter I

The Color Scheme

The Idea:

At three in the morning, on eBay, I bought a long, red wig. The style was fittingly called

"Showgirl," and I fell in love at first sight. I had not planned to shop for wigs and had never

seriously thought of wearing one, but strange things happen when you can't sleep and have

internet access. Fully awake and thrilled, I spent several more hours investigating. I knew wigs

had been around at least since Cleopatra's time, but I was stunned to find out just how big a deal

they are. There were so many and so many different kinds. The more I read and saw, the more

covetous I became. My mind filled with dreamy images of long locks cascading down my back. I

couldn't wait for my new hair to arrive.

To understand my excitement, you need to know that my hair has been my archenemy since

seventh grade. There was never enough of it, and what I had was wimpy. It became the root of

all my problems. If only my hair were better. As a child, I developed a theory about why my hair

broke off: Billy goats appeared at night and nibbled on it. It was the only reasonable explanation.

Then, after taking eighth grade Biology class, I started hating my mitochondria for delivering

faulty protein packets to my fingernails and follicles.

* * *

I went blonde at an early age. I can trace it back to my junior class picture. A bright color would

make the most of what I had, I figured. Since then it's been everything from platinum and bobbed

to long and yellow. Sometimes I liked it and others would compliment it, but the periods of utter

hate always returned.

Maybe it's because I grew up riding my horse, and I loved his long, unruly mane. As we

galloped through the fields, with my fists wrapped around clumps of it, I wished for a thick,

head-tossing mane of my own. I pictured myself as a wild woman and the two of us as a

speeding blur of hair. This fantasy would lead to bouts of bitterness.

* * *

I did have one fine, rare day when I was especially happy with my freshly cut hairdo. The smart,

chin-length bob felt swingy and playful. A woman stopped me on the sidewalk and asked if I

would be interested in modeling for a Prell shampoo commercial. She said that I had just the

right hair type. She took my picture and promised to get back to me. My elation and vindication

sent me running back to my hotel to tell someone. My mother howled with laughter, which I

found a little bit annoying even though it was a shared joke that I hated my hair.

"Are you sure they didn't want you to be a hair double for the 'before' shots?"

I never heard from the Prell woman again.

* * *

The next week of painful waiting was relieved only when the UPS man finally rang my bell and

handed me the box. Within a minute, I had "Showgirl" hair. BANG! I felt an instant flash of

primal power churning deep within my belly. Long and radiating, thick, flame-throwing hair was

at last mine. My transformation into a Fire Goddess was complete. I named myself "Kali."

That was my first impression in the private confines of my bathroom. I went public with my

fiery self a couple hours later. It was August and damn hot outside, but that didn't stop me. Once

out in the world, I was too giddy and agog to wonder if I looked stupid or lament about sweat

pouring down my neck. Even my body held itself differently, proud and feline. I became attuned

to my every movement and the weight and feel of the hair on my back.

Not five minutes outside my door, four fashion-challenged women, obvious tourists, gaped at

me as I passed them by on my way to Soho.

"Oh look girls, she must be somebody." They all nodded their heads and beamed at me. I

rewarded them for their recognition with a slight smile. Yes, ladies, you are correct, I am. Ooh,

this was fun. As I walked along people stared, pointed, and felt free to comment.

"Holy fuck, you have a lot of hair!"

"God bless that hair!"

"Aren't you hot with all that stuff hanging down your back?"

"Hey Red, wanna have my baby?"

A man in a suit actually fell to his knees before me on the sidewalk. He threw his briefcase to

the side, raised his clasped hands, and entreated me, “Please take me home with you; I'll do

whatever you want. Please…” He looked so astoundingly undignified I had to avert my eyes.

I stepped around him and carried on uptown to my vocal class. Upon my arrival, I was

surprised to see the normally taciturn twin security guards together at the entrance desk.

Usually one brother sat in a catatonic daze up front, while the other kept an expressionless

post at the back. Every week for two years, they had mumbled “Hi”, and had maybe managed

sad smiles, but today, it was clear that neither twin recognized me. As I waited for the elevator,

they shocked me with their cheery banter, awkward flirting, and giggles. Giggles!

On my way out after the lesson, a UPS man offered me the package he was delivering as a

gift, two young guys fought for the honor of opening a deli door for me, and one older dude

looked back at the wrong moment and ran into a newspaper stand. What the hell was going on?

I can't say that this has happened to me before. I mean, yes, heads have been turned in the past

thanks to my Amazonian stature (I'm five foot ten) and my hardy, German-stock bone structure,

but never like this. People have called me striking and sexy, but I've also been informed, too

recently for comfort, that I am no more than average. My own self-image fluctuates between

supremely irresistible creature to horse-faced, jowly blob with bad skin. In the months prior to

putting a wig on my head, I had felt decidedly horsey and received little to no attention. My real

hair, dirty blonde and straight, falling below my shoulders was blah, too

Was it all because of my new locks? Did the sight of them alone send out a flaming, five-

alarm mating call? The attention went to my head regardless of the reason, and I admit to

engaging in gross narcissism. I couldn't really claim that it was "me" getting noticed though.

The more I wore the wig out in public, the more that little detail bothered me. Who was it that

the people were reacting to? Did it count since I was wearing the wig? Was it only about my

outward appearance, or did my bolstered confidence have something to do with it? If so, would it

follow that the more revved and high on myself I got thanks to all the ogling, the more ogled I

would be? The chain reaction would escalate into a frenzy of navel-gazing delusion. Which leads

to the big question: Why did I crave being noticed enough to insist on becoming a "Showgirl"

every day for the last two weeks straight in 100-degree heat?

Well, the truth is, beneath the vanity and fantasy, my wig wearing had more to do with

survival. I often suffered crippling panic attacks when I went out into the world, but that changed

when I walked into life as Kali. I could hide behind her. If anyone rejected me, it wasn't

personal, although I could let the attention in as mine. And it made me feel alive.

I was aware of my folly, but I also saw it as a weird miracle. This head of hair let me be

someone else. Someone stronger. It also helped me escape a hopeless stretch of depression and

desperation that had left me terrified and furious.

* * *

For years, I had been struggling with my own mind. I went to private therapy and searched for

the roots of my suffering. I danced out my anger in my home and drew pictures of my pain in

group therapy. I did yoga. I read up on Buddhism, philosophy, the laws of universal attraction,

and all sorts of new-age ways to think happy thoughts, but I kept sinking. My psychiatrist told

me to wait it out, and we'd keep experimenting with medication. He was sure my depression

would lift soon. "It always does." I felt desperate and wild.

"You want me to just wait? I can't stand one more second of this. It's been five months. Fix it.

That's your job!"

* * *

I didn't have a job to give me some sense of being a productive human being. I wanted to get

one, but just the idea freaked me out. I did force myself to put in an application at Barnes &

Noble; they wouldn't have me. Before the depression, I had rehearsed and performed music in

the city. Not being able to play out with my band killed me, but how could I perform when just

being around people was tough to impossible?

So, I went to music classes, played the piano, did vocal exercises, tried to write, and spent the

rest of the day fighting panic attacks. Even being with my boyfriend, Tim, didn't bring me much

comfort anymore. His resentment about having to deal with my anxiety issues had finally started

to show. When a panic attack struck while we went out together, he refused to leave with me; I

had to go home and fend for myself. He couldn't and wouldn't stay home with me forever, nor

would he forsake his nightlife for me.

I didn't blame him. His kindness, loyalty, and patience could never be matched, but picking

your wailing girlfriend up off the floor for the 'nth time couldn’t have been fun for him and must

have gotten old.

My morning pep talks went something like this: Ok, you're not actually going to kill yourself

today, so do something! I used this motivational speech to muster up the courage to get a

volunteer job at a holistic, new-age learning center. That got me out of my house and head twice

a week, proved to me that I actually wasn't worthless, and eased my terror of being around other

people. I started to enjoy my new little social life. So, thanks to my ability to hold down the

volunteer gig for over two months and the energy and pretend confidence I absorbed from

spending time as my Kali alter ego, my mind felt freer to wander in lighter places.

* * *

About three weeks after my redhead debut, as I happened to walk under the Tim Letterman

Show marquee in Midtown one afternoon, I marveled over all the craziness that had happened.

Maybe it was because the hair is red. Red is blood, fire, sex. Or maybe it's just because it's long

and a ton of hair. Would everything change if I were a blonde or brunette? I was sure that I

would feel different. What if I got the same wig in different colors and tested it out? That would

be funny, and I'd get to gorge on the attention that comes from being a spectacle! I could even set

up an elaborate experiment and write about it. That would give me something to do full time,

everyday. Imagine—a structure. A goal! I need this.

Just wearing a wig around and getting looked at would not save me forever. I could not fall

back into depression. Maybe I could write a book on my experience. Could I really make a job

out of this absurdity?

Then it hit me.

WHO FUCKING CARES? It would give me a reason not to kill myself for five weeks. Do it.

Worry about the rest later. And besides, people do stupid human tricks.

By the time I got home, I had my scheme all worked out. Project code name: Crowning

Glory.

First and foremost, Crowning Glory had to be done right. Something like this called for a

ridiculously absurd plan and a heroic effort, or it would just be dumb. I wanted heroically dumb.

And I wanted to throw myself into a melee of action every day and every night, so much and so

crazy that I'd be flung smack into life, shock the hell out of my depression, and never give it a

chance to catch back up. So, the scale would be grand, but since human behavior (mine included)

is uncontrollable and largely insane, I needed to figure out an organized and objective way to

observe and investigate. That meant I had to come up with a "controlled" experiment.

* * *

The Color Scheme

I couldn’t pull this off alone. My reporting wouldn't be objective, and I couldn't nonchalantly

stare at everyone who crossed my path to see if they looked at me. Besides, I wouldn't have any

fun by myself. My goals were lofty. I wanted all sorts of data, including stare statistics and

psychological observations. This called for another set of eyes and an ego separate from mine.

I needed to hire a spy.

That decision set off inner alarm bells. Could I be around someone for so long? I might lose

it. People scared me. Then I stopped and listened to myself. Jesus, I can't be this dead at such a

young age, can I? I have to get a life! If I panic, I panic. I can always quit, but I have to try.

Only slightly convinced by my rallying cry, I placed the following ad on Craig's List:

Need Female Assistant for "city field research."

I 'm doing a very interesting and fun social experiment – 5 weeks, 6 days/wk. I'll be the

subject of the experiment. I need you to follow me around and observe and record what happens

daily, take photos—quick shots throughout day—organize and log data, be available to

accompany me to bars, (just to observe, nothing risqué involved). Should be able to give

fashion/makeup advice and having a flair for styling hair would be great, possibly do light

research in the field of hair and attraction and sexuality. Must be relaxed, enthusiastic, down to

earth, have good social observation skills and like working with another woman.

—neutrality is essential.

—Quirkiness/interesting point of view is appreciated

As fate would have it, the perfect accomplice answered my ad:

"I have research experience and a good bit of beauty and hair knowledge. I have published a

pop-culture beauty book and ghostwritten sections of a book on fashion design for a celebrity

author. My observation skills are excellent… Your idea is making me smile. I happen to be really

obsessed with hair…"

Bonnie and I met at my apartment to discuss the project, and I quickly decided she would

make an excellent co-conspirator. She was thirty-three like me, a native New Yorker, seemed

smart and funny, was a total girly-girl, appeared to have it together, and thankfully, didn't seem

to notice that I didn't. Great, except for the fact that I wasn't used to being around other humans,

and this one was pretty and had a lot of blonde hair to boot. I'd just have to get over it.

"Wait, that's your real hair, right?" Bonnie asked.

"Yes, well the color isn't entirely real, but..."

"Oh, please. Who has 'real' hair color?"

"Want to see the wig?"

She nodded enthusiastically, so I ducked into the bathroom and arranged my red hair in front

of the mirror, then shyly re-presented myself.

"Oooh! That looks very glamorous. I love it. But I have to say, I really like your real hair,

too."

Spy hired. Step one accomplished.

* * *

My plan called for me to go undercover and live a week each in the life of a redhead, brunette,

blonde, and black-tressed woman. My spy and I were to conduct each week's field research in the

same places, on the same days but each time with me wearing a different colored, long flowing

wig. The fifth and final week would act as the control; I would go out and about that week sans

wig, wearing only the hair that grew from my own head.

In the name of pseudo-scientific integrity, I designed a schedule to be followed during the

entire experiment. Unfortunately, due to my lack of a happening social life, I didn't know the city

that well, so I went to Barnes & Noble and bought a bunch of Manhattan guidebooks, joined

Zagat, and hit the Internet for some serious research. My goal was to include as many diverse

settings and Manhattan neighborhoods as possible to find out if, say, Wall Street has a particular

fetish for redheads, or Soho secretly hates blondes. We'd sip cocktails in posh uptown hotels,

have power lunches with the big boys in Midtown, hop dive bars until early morning on the hip

Lower East Side, loiter in countless cafes, and walk enough city streets to wear the heels on my

boots down to nubbins. For the next five weeks, my plate would be full every day and every

night, and hopefully, if I survived putting these two hundred plus hours under my belt, I could

get a life out of the deal, too.

Moments of amazement kept sneaking up on me. My eyes widened and tingled. I realized I

had something to look forward to.

* * *

The Wardrobe

Once I figured out where to go, I then had to decide on what to wear. All outfits would be

black, so the hair would be the color focus. I also wanted to vary the style of outfits and amount

of exposed flesh to get an idea of just how much the whole package mattered.

That's when I realized I had to get things started immediately. It had been a few weeks since I

thought of the idea, and it was already the end of September. The still sweltering weather would

not last. A sexy, cleavage-revealing dress is not quite the same under a winter coat! I panicked

briefly, but decided it was a good thing. Momentum was key to keep me from chickening out.

* * *

Modus Operandi

Bonnie would accompany me at all times to observe and document any and all attention

coming my way as well as take note of my changing moods and reactions to said attention or

lack thereof. One of her main jobs was to keep track of and tally the daily "Stare Stats," i.e. how

many and what kinds of people stared at me. We thought this would be a fun way to obtain "hard

data," and use those numbers to determine the hair color winner.

My job was to live the part (obviously) and document my experience to compare the outside

world of what happened and the inside world of how I felt. My plan was coming together.

Day: Monday

Outfit: Business skirt suit

First Outing: Lunchtime, Wall Street, Businessmen

Second Outing: Afternoon, West Village "street time", tourists, dog-walkers, etc

Third Outing: "Unhappy" Hour, West Village, after-work crowd

Day: Tuesday

Outfit: Casual pants

First Outing: Morning, Chinatown Walk through, residents and workers

Second Outing: Afternoon, SoHo Starbucks, Work at Open Center

Third Outing: Night, SoHo bars and street time, the chic, the pretentious, the occasional

celebrity

Day: Wednesday

Outfit: Artistic flowy dress

First Outing: Lunch (power), Midtown, proper older ladies, business crowd

Second Outing: Afternoon, Upper West Side, Affluent families, Columbia students, nannies,

tourists

Third Outing: Late Night, Wild card w/ Steve, Tipsy-to- drunk fun lovers

Day: Thursday

Outfit: Velvet fitted dress

First Outing: Lunch, East Village, younger crowd, punks, hippies, random lunatics

Second Outing: Afternoon, Work at Open Center

Third Outing: Night, Meatpacking District bar scene, See & be-seen crowd, mingling singles,

celebrities

Day: Friday

Outfit: Mod Squad mini-dress

Second Outing: Happy Hour, Uptown (posh), sugar daddies, old money set

Third Outing: Night, Midtown, post-frat boys, office workers, after-work crowd

Day: Saturday

Outfit: Daytime: casual sweats. Nightime: smut-girl leather

First Outing: Afternoon, Union Square, tourists, shoppers, mixed bag

Second Outing: Evening, Lower East Side, Hipsters, rockers, loud revelers

Third Outing: Late Night, Lower East Side, same crowd, now drunker.

At high noon on Monday, October 3, 2005, the Crowning Glory experiment went live!
... view entire excerpt...

Discussion Questions

How has your image of personal beauty impacted your relationships?

How would changing your looks change your self-image?

What lessons from your childhood about your looks do you still carry with you today? Which ones are no longer with you?

Do you know anyone who has ever suffered from depression or Bi-polar disorder? How did you support them?

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