Pioneering My Personality

PIONEERING MY PERSONALITY

Or … The Tale Of Jacqueline And Heidi

           My life always had a peculiar slant to it. I grew up playing games, especially dress up, keeping secrets, being mysterious and elusive. Deviating from the norm, pretending.

           No, I didn’t have a psychological problem. I was just as normal as the next kid.

           Nevertheless, my spirit had a way of letting me down.

           I had a reason. My mother granted me excessive interest. In fact, both of my parents were strict to the point of extremes so this made me less than courageous in the choices I made. Inhibition set in and I was alone, keeping myself company.

           What I needed was an escape from them, from life.

           During high school I was the girl that no one accepted because of her weight, in no way remarkable to look at. Not chosen for sports, or class officer, I never stood out in the crowd, nor was the center of attention, except, of course, at home.

           An outcast, if you will.

           No one noticed me and I didn’t belong. I wasn’t the subject of any conversation, for that I was sure. Back then, I inclined toward a solitary existence, absorbed into my studies.

           Socially, I had been cheated out of quality friendships so I might just as well have been discarded. Popularity is overrated anyway, although at the time I didn’t realize that. Most all my classmates lacked in recognition of my achievements, which included musical talent and great grades. In my hometown, that didn’t qualify for popularity.

           In those days, abnormally, I felt no scorn or blame. I can’t ever remember being insulted or made fun of. Just invisible.

After a while, I didn’t like it, but didn’t mind it.

           I never complained.

           Like a ship at sea with nowhere to anchor, I was a lost crusade. The kind of person whose name would never appear on any theater marquee nor noted for any legacies, or whose biography would interest no one.

           The pattern followed me through fifteen years of adulthood. I became a flutist in a major city symphony, an introvert, and what’s more, never dated. In fact, my relationship resume smacked of three entries from high school ROTC dances. As much as I tried to convince myself this was a standard way of life, I knew something lacked.

           In the back of my mind lurked the possibility that someday I would make my break, instill an impression on someone, somewhere, if given the chance.

           That day came one morning when I woke up with a new attitude, tired of feeling like an old souvenir long forgotten and put away. Weary of always being on the outside looking in. I had suddenly realized my life, up to now, was a series of mistakes and a resurrection was in order.

           Several months earlier, I had read an article about a woman who was forced to wear a wig due to abundant hair loss from her chemotherapy. Her husband insisted she wear it, or he’d divorce her. The story hadn’t left my mind.

           Of course!

           That was it, my answer.

           Wigs!

           Oh, the potential they would embrace!   

           Without a doubt, the initiative took a while to catch on, as this novelty would not be something that could be decided on in a minute. Would I be that far off base if I took on this mission? The closest to an answer I could get for myself was to go ahead and take a long shot, the opportunity.   

           Throughout the next few weeks, I purchased a wig wardrobe just for experimentation. As I speculated on the different styles, optimism and submissiveness immediately hijacked my rationale. With every check of my profile in the mirror, I mouthed the words “Shame on you!” but, oddly enough, the meaning just didn’t penetrate my conscience. Hauntingly, each wig brought out the misbehavior and sensuality buried deep within me.

           Suddenly, I felt original.

           The idea took on proprietary measures and soon set itself into motion. If I was going to carry this thing through, I needed to reform and figure in a willful decision plus some creative insight.

           Wearing the wigs, I realized I could be anyone I wanted to be and the notion of a masquerade excited me more than I cared admitting. It did no good to remind myself this adventure might get out of hand.

           It took a few more days, but I prepared. All the while, certain thoughts struck me: Was I up to being an imposter? To committing fraud? Did I have enough courage to lead a double life? After all, I would only be deceiving myself so what worries should I have?

           I felt like a new car would, ready for a test drive, or that I was at a private party and a certain amount of informality was permitted. Or, even as if I were dancing without steps.      

           Goodness, was I well overdue for change!

        Little did anyone know, I lacked the knowledge of those women who carry style, grace and class. Therefore, I was a kindergartener in the school of beauty invention and no one else could lend any advice. 

           With the help of a professional cosmetologist, I had a facial makeover and discovered my own refinement. The magical transformation enlightened me. It was as if I sailed on a maiden voyage to a land far far away, or that I had kept a promise made to myself long ago.

           Let me be quick in pointing out my intuition imbued on a wild goose chase and my good sense might very well blackmail me throughout this metamorphosis.

           Could I create this novel life with my old backwardness and shy ways?

           Time would tell.

           I was ready.

           All was in place.

          At first, I continued donning my frumpy wardrobe for daytime and maintain my identity as the timid and private person my acquaintances knew. Not embarrassed or ashamed, I simply

decided it was just best for the time being not disclosing my secret. Under flowing outfits, I still hid my well-proportioned shape, which included a more-than-blessed bosom.

           I saved my new personality for after work hours and weekends. They couldn’t come soon enough. When dusk arrived, my adrenaline kicked in knowing the next few hours would bring about the dazzling nightlife I yearned for. Little by little, I blended in to the social scene, alone, but I was used to that aspect. 

           Soon, I was on an obstacle course with two different lives and my emotions were deadlocked into a feud. Outside, my confidence swirled, while inside, nervousness downloaded into full swing. Fear and excitement served as building blocks to my rationale.

           You must understand where I’m coming from, an unfamiliar place. Keep in mind, I was brought up with modesty and insignificance, so naturally, those aspects would be foreign, would have to be put aside, clearing the way for a new presence.

           Once I slipped on a wig, my looks changed drastically. Along with my new appearance came further concerns. I had to sort out the emotions that were changing in unknown proportions because all this brought up the pressing problem of identity. When reality set in, the confusion of who I should be and what personality needed adoption pawned my soul.  

           On the surface, there were no limits and my priorities hinted at a leap of faith. Yet, I sensed an anxiety I had never known before.

           Was my sensibility falling through the cracks? By any stretch of the imagination, this was a game for sure, as definite as a calling card. 

           Sometimes I felt as if I were playing charades, the way a spy passes himself off by hiding in a crowd. On the other hand, this new life leaned toward the similarity of traveling out of a run-down neighborhood and finding my way into a well-maintained community where I will remain.

           There were times I reminded myself I created no illegality. Half jokingly, I theorized I had served time as an unfulfilled doormat and suddenly had been paroled for courageous behavior.

           Within months, the wigs became sentimental attachments, second nature, safety nets. Wearing them was like hearing the same melody playing different notes each time with me being the song, the styles being the notes.

          It didn’t matter whether the wig was short, curly, long, or straight. I was now ready for any occasion, almost at a moment’s notice. Shades from honey blonde to chestnut brown, Irish red to platinum ash made up my evening silhouette. I just knew lasting memories would originate while I wore the hairpieces.

           An early-Cher style inspired me, giving a natural boldness lacking before. My favorite was the long auburn nineteen forties Rita Hayworth piece with its wavy, sleek, sexy layers framing my face, adding kindness.

           Those times when a delicate, modest mood invaded, I sported a short, curly coif that worked for effect, making me appear a debutante, a sophisticate.

           In my super short, close-cropped wig, I passed for a bewitching girl-about-town.

           When I returned to my former self, luckily, just a simple shake or brief run-through with a brush was all my mousy brown hair needed.

           Finally, I was in my element, in my own little corner, a success at something. A sense of belonging, with no plans for a relapse, popped up in my radar.

           The most beneficial revelation of all seemed my damaged ego soon gave way to flattery. Now comfortable with my new look, I learned how to call flirting into play.  For once, I actually rated compliments while making heads turn my way, especially from the opposite sex. Moreover, I accepted dates, spending unconventional, sensational nights out on the town,     dancing the evening away with someone different almost every night. Cinderella had arrived, at least in my mind.

           You see, deep down, I longed to be the woman who men are secretly in love with, the kind men fantasize about. One of those female characters in the classic movies who were made for romance and intrigue with a tad bit of naughty demeanor.

           I guess everyone has her or his own dreams.

        With every charade, my heart pounded, reminiscent of someone who was caught up in a police chase. Another wig, another bad memory purged.

           Another style, another pleasant leeway into my reverence.

           Strangely, I loved this double life. I kept reminding myself I was as free as the air with no one to answer to. I couldn’t find anything wrong with this simulation regardless how many times I confronted myself.

           Because once I got a taste for this unfamiliar bravery, I realized no more room for doubt existed. I had to make this work, or give up the silly notion of pretending.

           And the delicacy of that taste seemed just too sweet, too satisfying.

           It’s now been six months since I sported my first hairpiece. For good measure, I still keep the secret. Those closest to me are unsuspecting as I continue masking under loose clothing and natural hair. I’ll gradually modify my appearance to accommodate a newer look, when the time is right. Only I’ll know at what point the mystery will be revealed.   

           You probably wouldn’t mind asking: what am I gaining throughout all this? How could I allow my life such change?

           Well friends, I’m collecting traits I’ve never known before as a child or adult, notably confidence and self-esteem. Those old feelings of isolation, loneliness, shyness, and shame no longer leave their calling card. I’ve lost nothing in this captivating changeover.

           When the past comes to mind, a smile blossoms. For me, there’s no going back. Never again will I permit anyone to destroy my credibility.

           Contrary to what you may believe after reading this story, NO, I don’t possess a psychological problem. I’m just as normal as the next person. It’s just that my psyche opts to play talent scout for every new adventure.

            Now that you’ve taken in all the facts, do you think I’m living a fantasy, just being practical, or have compromised in maturity?

           Have I fooled myself along with others?

           I’ll let you decide.

           For now, I know I will never again be too ordinary or a run of the mill person living in the shadows. The wigs won’t let me, for they decide my fate. From here on out, I’m wasting no

more time. My attitude is under new management as I have been given a reason to believe in something.

           As for other questions needing addressed, I can answer them myself.

           Had I been born again? Or self-created this new personality?

           Yes on both accounts. My constitution deviates as I change wigs.

           Does this lifestyle suit me?

           Will I continue carrying this pretense through?

           Absolutely, for I have exceeded my own expectations and underestimated my judgment. 

           After all, it’s too late to turn back now. Why should I? I’ve not only been compelled to break with the past but love the new person I have become. My life has just begun.

           Do I think of myself as my own pioneer?

           Perhaps.

           But what once was a silly idea is now my lifestyle. And I envision the lasting effects with anticipation.