The performance is going well, the surrounding mirrors reflecting every part of the act. My dear mother, to her credit, is playing her part perfectly too. We’re together at the sheitel salon, playing kallah and kallah’s mother as we nix one sheitel after the other.

Really, my age (almost) qualifies for me to be a kallah trying on potential wigs. But Hashem’s plans don’t necessarily run along the lines man envisions. So instead of replacing my hair with a wig in honor of my upcoming wedding day — which the other clients are here for — my wig purchase is for an entirely different reason. Notorious substances infamously known as chemo will soon wickedly remove every strand of my beautiful hair. Hence I need a replacement.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to tell her?” my mother asked when she booked the appointment. “She’ll be more understanding and give you the individualized attention you can use. Plus, you won’t have to endure complicated questions.”

“Ma! I’ve had enough of the individualized attention. Trust me, I’ll be getting more than enough attention when word spreads. Let me feel normal for as long as I still can.”

Secretly, I was also anticipating the dropping jaws when I would repeat the insanity of my mock kallah status to my friends. In addition to religiously going by my never-a-dull-moment mantra, I wasn’t going to let my sickness ruin my love for life and fun.

I’m trying to make the most of my appointment, walking the walk and talking the talk of a true bride.

“So, when is the wedding?” Reizy, the sheitelmacher, asks.

“No date yet,” my mother says nonchalantly as she lifts a highlighted blonde beauty and scrutinizes it near the window in the natural light. I nod my head, granting approval. Reizy picks up on the almost imperceptible nod and arranges the wig on my head.

“Crazy these days. They say getting a date at a hall is almost harder than finding your bashert,” Reizy intones as she expertly parts the sheitel in a way that emphasizes the highlights too much. I purse my lips in the mirror and realize my mother’s expression is mirroring mine. Nopes. Too wiggy.

Combing with my fingers, I bring the hairs to the side, then push them back, aiming for a natural flowing look. I frown. “Looks way too big and not very natural.” My mother nods while Reizy drones on and on about how voluminous is the thing now and how customers ask for more highlights like she asks for more dessert every Shabbos.

We laugh, my mother and I, as Reizy goes through more wigs. As an afterthought, she scoops up a rather thin looking wig with tamer highlights. The volume and color of this one is literally identical to my hair.