Anna Wintour’s Hair is a Spy.

Art by Anniella Victoria

Anna Wintour’s hair is a spy. I saw it whispering to her at the Spring/Summer Prada show. She’s discreet, I write, in my little blue book. I have to squint to find a clean blank space amidst her deliveries, luncheons, and skin peelings. The wig shivers and bristles at the next look causing Wintour to narrow her eyebrows, the silver lipped celebrities sitting around her can’t help but lean into her. The wig has a magnetic attraction pulse, I note.

Look at the masked women onstage parading down the runway in magenta like horses. Horses don’t wear that color. Angels do, and when Anna nods at them they sprout their wings; her wig shakes in one cohesive mass. I understand that the filaments of Hair have stuck into her brain receptors and allow it to move the cranium as it pleases. I understand this wig as a solid being with a warm blooded center so blessed Anna no longer needs to control her movements. Oh Anna, are you sleeping behind those black glasses? Can I have one too?

The runway crowds with models in their final walk. Please tell me what you look for, Anna Wintour’s Wig, so I can do my job right. I scratch my hair, the building I leave my belongings in has developed lice and rats and homeless. They’ve been gassing the building for two weeks now. I sleep under my desk, skittering home to change skirts, hiking up the tan tarp to retrieve: 2004 Ralph Lauren Purple plaid vest, Dolce Spring Summer 2007 floral silk screen pencil skirt; sometimes I’ll change my underwear, too. 

A headache begins when the clapping starts and I close my eyes for one angelic minute, heavenly horses, distract that woman long enough for two minutes of sleep…

I open my eyes to the notebook in hand as I bounce and shake in a black sedan. Wintour is talking to me without stop, I look up and jump, her bangs have curled into a mouth! How it speaks so angrily!

“- picked up on Monday at 3, and have the model with that horrible wig and the turtleshell broche come in for a fitting of -” Wig stops and I look up from my scribbling. 

“You see me, don’t you?” The blonde fronds hold a smirk. Below, Wintour’s face is stony and pinched, silent. I shake my head.

“Yes you do. Stop sweating. It's beading at your forehead, you look like a line cook.”

I quickly wipe with the back of my sleeve.

“Brush me. I like you. The last one screamed when she saw me for the first time.” 

I think of my squat, I don’t want to live in pesticides anymore. Limply, Anna’s body hands me a comb from the car door. I take it, searching her eyes through those sunglasses. Empty. I begin to brush softly the mass and The Hair relaxes at my touch. I close my eyes at the rhythmic sound.

“Get out.” I open my eyes to see Anna staring out the window. I sit up from my slumped position.

“Get out. You drooled on the seats you donkey” I blink and look at her hair frantically, 

“No, I, I need this…” I reach towards her hair, “I’ll brush you better, I-”

“What are you saying right now - actually, I don’t care. Get out, crazy. Pull Over!” the driver begins to pull over on the highway. I reach further for the hair and grab its texture, those bangs shaped like a twisted smile… I pull.

Sam Tuck