The Night My Mother Laughed So Hard Her Wig Fell Off

Exhaling in Asheville

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I originally wrote the first draft of this essay on October 13, 2016. It is one of my favorites, and I chose it to be the first essay I posted on Substack in April of 2024. A few months later, I reflected once again on the fragility of life as the devastation of Hurricane Helene affected so many in Asheville and across the Southeast.

Perhaps the only good thing that comes from tragedy is this awareness of how fleeting this time here together is. (See below for a link to another version of this piece created on Spoken.)

Sometimes a journey takes you beyond your intended GPS coordinates, to a place you didn’t realize you needed to go. That's my favorite thing about traveling. The mystery. The surprises. The anticipation of creating memories. A few years ago, our family was transported somewhere we all needed to go – new territory. It was a mindset destination, a small piece of real estate in our heads where surprise and laughter are the main attractions. A place where fear is kicked to the curb. We went there the night my mother laughed so hard her wig fell off.  

It was fall break. My three daughters and I drove from Rome, Georgia to Asheville, North Carolina to meet my parents for a couple of nights away. Asheville had been on my Must-Experience List for a long time, and I was eager to tour the Biltmore Estate. My parents eagerly agreed to travel from their home in Shelbyville, Kentucky to join us there. We met on a Sunday, and explored Asheville’s downtown together, settled into our rental unit, then landed at a restaurant named Copper Crown, famished after a long day of travel and exploring.

With menus opened and appetites rumbling, we placed our orders. My mom, (a.k.a. "Grammy,") had just been introduced to the hilarity of Snapchat filters, and the kids were demonstrating the app's ability to swap faces. Normally, I'm a stickler for putting away phones at the dinner table, especially in restaurants, but both generations of family members were actively enjoying seeing their faces swapped and contorted, so I didn't spoil the fun. As I sat there, eagerly awaiting my gourmet burger and mentally planning our excursion to Biltmore the next day, the table erupted in laughter. My middle daughter, Aubrey, proudly handed Grammy her iPhone to reveal my mother's face with some type of crazy filter. Mom clutched the phone to her chest as if it was the Hope diamond, her face down in reverence in silent, hilarious prayer. Then, she stretched out her arm to get another look through squinted eyes, the gold flakes in her irises catching the overhead lights. She looked up to the heavens and let out the familiar cackle I've consistently heard since my childhood. It was her trademark laugh – the kind that's loud and embarrassing, but you have no choice but to give in to the contagiousness of it. Her outburst ignited another round of collective laughter, a chorus of bottom-of-the-gut chuckles way too loud for a fancy restaurant.

That's when it happened.

When wig met floor.

Hands met head.

Wide-eyed, Mom frantically clawed for the hair piece that was missing in action. She turned to me in both horror and exhilarating surprise, fingers spreading crab-like across her head to account for the lack of hair. Instinctively, I jumped out of my chair and retrieved the small, animal-like wig that was lying flat and lifeless on the cold restaurant floor. Clumsily, I shook it until it formed a silver bowl and inexpertly attempted to crown her with it.

Shaking hands still covered her face, which pinkened to the same shade of her cranberry-colored perfectly manicured nails. Her shoulders heaved like someone desperately pumping water out of a well. I stood over her from behind to try to secure the wig, the upper half of my body cradling her naked head, peppered with spikey strands of new hair growth like a man’s week-old beard. I was sure she was having a humiliation meltdown. This is the same woman who had shushed me in church for talking above a whisper and instructed me to "sit like a lady," almost a zillion times during my childhood. There was no way she was going to recover from her wig falling off in a public place. No way. None of us would be enjoying the burgers, scallops and grilled cheese that we had just ordered. Nope, our night was taking a different turn. We would be leaving with take-out bags, and perhaps a stretcher.

Feeling brave enough to uncover her face, she looked up at me. It was clear then. I had put the wig on backwards! Her shoulders were still heaving, but, amazingly, the tears welling up in her hazel brown eyes stemmed from uncontrollable laughter, not embarrassment. (Well, maybe a little embarrassment, but it was the good kind.) The reversed wig sported silky, silver bangs, nearly covering her deer-in-the-headlight pupils.

"Is? It? On? Right?," she asked between staggered, whole-body-shaking laughs. I critiqued my failed attempt at restoring order, then exhaled, finally releasing the breath I had been holding since seeing the wig fall.

Surrendering to the situation, I joined her in laughing so hard I could barely answer. Tears began streaming down my face. Steadying myself with Jello-like arms on the table, I looked her in the eyes and said between breaths, "No, Mom. It's on backwards. But. We'll. Fix it." More confidently, I swiveled the wig back into its normal position, patting it down like an unruly pet that had finally behaved. I glanced at the girls and my father, each of whom had obviously received the same unspoken permission I did to let loose and laugh hysterically. We became the table that everyone stared at inquisitively with amused expressions. Some were appalled. Some wished they were sitting with us.  

Although a little tousled, the wig finally nestled into its home, correctly positioned with both of Mom's hands holding it steady, anchored with every muscle in her body. She hunkered down and put her elbows on the table, silently wishing a bottle of Super Glue would be served with our meal so she could ensure it not falling off again. Catching her breath, she looked at me and said, "It's going to be okay," as her laughing eyes softened. 

The weight of her words sunk in, like a football caught in the stomach that takes your breath. She wasn't just talking about the wig. "It's going to be okay," rang in my head. I smiled and nodded.

I exhaled again, long and slow. 

Take that, Cancer. Our entire party of six just boldly laughed at you straight in your UGLY face, right there in a public restaurant where fancy food is served and girls are supposed to sit like ladies.

“TAKE THAT!” in a bold F-U kind of way that only a woman wearing (or not wearing) a wig because of chemo can say unapologetically. This woman who has been told she is beautiful her entire life, and who suddenly loses her hair, her eyelashes, her sense of taste and 12 inches of her colon, just bravely laughed you right out of the room.

Take THAT, Cancer. She was crowned in a restaurant named Copper Crown. And, although her adornment was silver, she ruled over you.

With sides a little sore, we eventually recovered from the wig catastrophe and no one kicked us out of the restaurant. We got to eat our scallops, burgers and grilled cheese. It was going to be okay.

The next day, we enjoyed a wonderful time at Biltmore and a quiet evening back at our rented home away from home. We opted for take-out pizza. Everyone's hair stayed in place. I found mom the next morning in the game room all by herself, determined to perfect her pool shark techniques. On a normal day, she wakes up crazy early so who knows how long she had been in there. I don't think I'd ever seen her play pool before this trip. Ever. But there she was, her eyes on the eight ball as if it were threatening to steal her middle school boyfriend. Eventually, the kids joined her in racking up balls, chalking sticks and shooting with really bad form. Technique didn't matter, however. They all stuck with it, encouraging her and each other, and occasionally something fell in a side pocket. (Never mind if it was the cue ball.)

Reluctantly, I drove away from the Blue Ridge Mountains as the fog lifted the next morning. Our car headed south. My parents’ car headed west. I was thankful for the rising sun and the rose gold light shining on the trees, but even more illuminating was the souvenir I was bringing home. As I watched my mother travel a journey she never planned and certainly never hoped for, I was encouraged and impressed by her example of hope. The surprising destinations this trip provided our family extended well beyond the beautiful places and great food we shared. In the midst of this gritty stage in our family's life, we were humbled by the fearlessness of a woman in a wig.

Perhaps laughter is the best medicine for everyone, even those affected by cancer. Better than chemo. It might not physically cure anything, and it might cause a scene where people drop their forks and stare. But, in its wake swims a boldness that steadies the mind and illustrates the value in little moments shared among those who laugh and love together… and take long breaths, exhaling right along with each other. 

EPILOGUE: EPILOGUE

In 2019, our family moved back to my hometown in Kentucky to open a coffee shop. What happened next was a perfect storm of circumstances that spiraled into something I never imagined. I held onto the example of faith my mother displayed and found healing in humor and in dinners shared with family.

In late September of 2024, Asheville experienced the real deal type of storm, one of epic proportions. The Copper Crown reported on Instagram that all of its employees were safe in the aftermath of Hurricane Helene. When power was finally restored in the area, their team partnered with the World Central Kitchen to provide meals for the community.

On October 15, of that same year, my mother celebrated her 80th birthday. Still cackling her trademark laugh. And, still wearing a silver wig, --- snug and tight.

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Listen to a fun version (and more professionally narrated) of this essay on Spoken, a platform (in beta phase) that helps writers to easily self-publish, share, and monetize an audio version of their work.

Spoken is an innovative streaming platform with tools that make it easier for writers to create high-quality audio and to self-publish, share and monetize their work. Through Spoken Studio, writers can upload long and short form content, including novels, essays, poems, screenplays and more and bring their stories and characters to life. Spoken is currently accepting new writers to access their Beta version for free. Visit www.spoken.press to learn more.