Getting wiggy with it

Prior to finding a handful of it in my hoodie, I think I was told on about 1,753 occasions that I should expect to lose my hair. And not once did I actually believe it. Instead, I assumed that I would be the one lucky git in a million whose hair hung in there despite the toxic drugs, leaving me free to treat myself to washes and highlights rather than wigs and headscarves. But less than a month after my first chemo session, I found myself sitting in front of shelf upon shelf of dodgy grey rugs in a broom cupboard-sized back room of my hospital, digging my nails into my palms to stop myself from sobbing at my first wig fitting.

I'm quite entertained by the fact that I just called it a wig 'fitting'. That makes it sound like buying a wedding dress, when the two experiences couldn't be in fact more different. In one, your mum cries while you spend an hour trying on a dress you'll wear for just twelve hours. In the other, you cry with embarrassed laughter while you spend fifteen minutes trying on a wig that you might have to wear for twelve months. The only similarity comes with showing off in front of a mirror - again, though, in one experience your reflection looks as good as it ever will, and in the other you're staring back at Rod Stewart.

For a prescription fee of about £60, cancer patients are entitled to an NHS wig, with the style and fit to be advised by the hospital's resident wig expert. I'm guessing that being stuck in a tiny, stuffy room with nothing but Crap FM and mannequin heads for company is something of a joyless working existence – a fact that my resident Wig Man made no attempt to hide.

Not unlike a championship vegetable grower who sings to their prize-winning marrows, Wig Man was rather well acquainted with the wigs he shared an office with, referring to each one as though it were an actual person with a distinct personality. "She's too square for you," he'd say. "Try this – her style is much more suited to your face shape." And, as I was soon to discover, each wig isn't just supposedly female in gender, but also has a name. Since losing my hair I've invested in two wigs – one called Codi, the other Erika – but, frankly, I was spoiled for choice. There were many other beauties, with names like Ecstasy, Grace, Rendezvous, Ominous or even – my personal favourite – Très Bien.

Unable to find anything on the NHS that didn't make me look like the lead singer of The Darkness and/or Blanche from Coronation Street, I soon ditched the broom cupboard and went looking for wigs on the high street, foolishly assuming that there was bound to be a barnet boutique equivalent of TopShop for younger wig wearers. TopMop, perhaps.

Foolish indeed. All I discovered was the same slightly loopy, mannequin-head-tastic atmosphere wherever I went. Every other wig expert I saw (that's four and counting) stuck as rigidly to wig names – and personalities – as the Original Wig Man had. "Samantha's lovely," said one. "See the way she's feathered around the face? Let's try her. Oh, and let's give Miranda a go, too." As a Sex and the City fan, I was especially disappointed that I didn't discover any wigs called Carrie or Charlotte.

Unfortunately, though, enforced wig-buying isn't all fancy-dress fun. When you're sitting in front of a mirror, faking a smile as you try to convince yourself that people in the street won't point and laugh at the blonde rodent perched on your head, it's inevitable that you end up thinking about the reason you're there in the first place. Partcularly for an image-conscious, hair-precious, twentysomething lass, that's nothing short of heartbreaking.

Having taken along some moral support – in the form of my husband and best mate – to the one wig 'fitting' in which I actually parted with some money, I did my best to keep up the cheery, comedy pretence, slapping on a brave face and even playing along with a few of the usual losing-your-hair gags with the owner of the tiny, central London shop. "Just think of all the money I'll save on shampoo!" I joked. "Blimey, I'll be able to get ready so quickly!" Ha ha ha! Well, no, actually. Not ha ha. Because, I realised, this is my worst nightmare come true. Here I am, in my so-called prime, trying on wigs. Not for fun, but because I've got breast cancer. Not so funny now, eh?

It was about that point at which I suddenly lost my sense of humour, got insanely angry and burst into a tearful tantrum, yelling at my husband and friend for telling me how great I looked in the hairpiece I'd reluctantly settled on (that's 'Codi' to you), when what we were really looking at was an ill-looking cancer patient in a wig. "The reason I've got you two here," I spluttered, "is not so you can tell me what you think I want to hear. Stop bloody well telling me I look good and be honest. I look like I'm wearing a wig."

That, I'm afraid, is the reality. I didn't want anyone to tell me how much the style suited my face shape, how the highlights seemed so real or how the bobbed style made me look younger. I wanted them to say, "Wow, Lisa, I honestly can't believe it's a wig! It's exactly like your old hair!" And I wanted them to mean it. But, of course, you can't always get what you want.

Don't get me wrong, Codi is a good wig. She's styled, highlighted, layered and as contemporary a design as you're likely to find in an industry aimed at women who are thirty years older than me. But I think what I found so upsetting was that nobody managed my expectations and – obvious as it sounds – warned me that I'd never get a wig that was an exact replica of my old hair. Then again, nobody warned me not to wear my wig on an open-top sightseeing bus, either. I guess there are some things you just have to learn the hard way.