Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Ryan Wigs Out

It’s chilly - sweater weather.  I’m even wearing an actual sweater - vintage, handknit by mom - and of course a cap, a closefitting black fleece watchcap as a matter of fact.  On my short walk at dusk to the terminal for my bus home, while I wait at the corner of Mish and Beale for the light to change, two women join me at the crosswalk.  One totes one of those metal roller dollys so ubiquitous in this post-paper-free world, the sort of tool that I don’t even notice any more, loaded down with a big cardboard box.  Her companion carries a white object, though - one that catches my eye.  It’s Ryan, or Ryan’s head, at least: a styrofoam head with “Ryan” scrawled on the side in clumsy black letters; he wears a Beatles-esque wig.  My eye moves from Ryan to the box on the dolly: it’s full of wigs, different shades of brunette, nicely teased and curled.  There are no fewer than seven or eight wigs in that box - maybe more.  I nod a “good evening” to Ryan, and then to his escorts.  “Need a wig, sir?,” one of them asks me brightly.  “How could you tell?,” I ask back, pulling off the watchcap and letting my shaved scalp shine in the streetlights.  All three of us laugh; Ryan grins knowingly.  We walk together for one block riffing on wigs and baldness, and then disperse into the deepening dark.