The Wig

Leo's memory

Leo entered into the Tailor's shop. He had come all the way from his new home on Castle Hill to be fitted for a new suit for his Nameday celebration. Leo hated his Nameday. Leo hated suits. Mostly, Leo hated the Tailor's shop. 

The shop was well past the edge of the Chaff Sea in a town called Tumbledown. The town was built out of the ruins of an ancient castle long collapsed. The journey took half a day each way. Leo would have delighted to have read on the journey, but his father had forbidden him to remove any of his books from his library. It was supposed to be his castle, his library, his books, but his father never seemed to mind that. 

 "It made a prince look weak to be carrying books about." That he should have "his sword and only his sword about him," his father said,

Besides the journey, the shop was queer. It was built out of the half-ruins of some ancient bakery or smithy. The foundations were laden with Lichen and Rott. The glass of the windows was tinted black and a hundred other colours in a fractal arrangement. The door was made of strange, heavy charred-black wood.

The inside was only more queer. There were spools of silks and fabrics strewn every which way. There were bright and colourful tapestries adorning each and every wall. Nothing was nothing. Everything was colourful and purposeful and loud. Leo hated that most of all.

The Tailor was a queer looking man. Leo assumed he was a man. He had never thought to ask. The Tailor was slender and slight. His limbs were wiry, and his cheekbones were strong. He wore, on this particular occasion, a royal purple silk tunic with cream stitching and details. Over that, he wore a tight-fitting belt that clung about his hip, no sword nor dirk in sight, and a coat that hung open in the front, covered in big bright buttons. Leo quite liked this coat, he had to admit. At the collar of the coat, a big white neckerchief was tucked and folded in like a dinner napkin. Leo quite liked that as well. He smelled oddly like a forest. The tailor's face was gaunt but kind, with too much powder about his cheekbones and button nose. His eyes were skys of blue, deeply kind. Worst of all was the ridiculous wig always about his head. 

Leo knew much of wigs. He knew that so many tailors wore them that they were mockingly called  "Wigs." They seemed to have embraced the taunt. Leo also knew that bald men like his father often wore them. Leo thought wigs were for cowards. He bore his shame outwardly. His corruption was on display for all to see and know, and mock.

Leo hated wigs almost as much as he hated his own head. His scalp, that where his hair should be, instead extended a tangle of grotesque tentacles. Sometimes they moved, and women would scream. Leo was used to that. He was a mutant. He was a monster. They were right to find his vile. They were right to loathe him. He found himself vile and loathsome. He cried into the looking-glass whenever he managed the courage to look. 

The Tailor never screamed when he saw Leo's dome. He was kind to Leo, always. His eyes were kind to Leo. Many people shielded their hearts behind beautiful words. Their cold eyes always told true.

"Welcome back, my Prince. It has been too long. When were you last in my eclectic little shop? Your last Nameday, I think? Come see what I have prepared for you." The Tailored beckoned Leo towards the back. 

The Tailor led silent Leo to the back of the shop, where his princely number awaited adorning a mannequin. Leo hated it.

"Good," Leo lied. Not even convincing. 

"You must try it on, my Prince," the Tailor removed the suit from the mannequin and helped Leo into the jacket. "The fit is perfect, if I do say so myself." It did fit perfectly. Leo could not deny that the Tailor was skilled at his craft. 

"Perfect," Leo parroted. Leo was frozen in the sight of his reflection in the mirror. He could not look away, only stare at himself in horror. He could feel himself starting to cry. The Tailor smiled warmly.

"I forgot something. I'll be right back. The Tailor practically skipped away to go find some finishing touch behind the big red velvet curtain with yellow trim that separated the front and the back of the shop. 

Leo was transfixed. He tried to fight it back, but a single tear went down his cheek. The Tailor reemerged and wiped the Prince's tear away with his pale, slender finger.

"Do not cry, my Prince, you are beautiful. But until you can look yourself in the eye and say, I am beautiful, I can help you first look yourself in the eye without needing to cry." For the first time ever, Leo believed the Tailor. Not that he meant it. He always had. But that it was true. 

The Tailor placed a curly white wig of medium length over Leo's head. His scalp was filled with shame and overflowed. Unexpectedly, the wig sealed off the fountain of shame. Leo's shame vanished. It was still there, under the wig, but not for all to see. Just him. Tears began to rush from Leo's eyes, joyful tears. He clung to the Tailor and silently sobbed as the Tailor held him tight.

"You are beautiful, my Prince. Do not hide who you are from them; save it for you."

From that day forward, Leo loved to go to the shop to see his friend the Tailor.