Somewhere over Omaha there's a head of hair with my name on it

My "cranial prosthesis," aka wig, was due to arrive on Thursday, at which point the retailer would shave the remaining wisps from my head, fit the wig and then thin it out and style it per my wishes. I was more than eager for it to arrive. The little black newsboy hat that had perched so jauntily atop my head just a few weeks ago had taken on a Linda Blair personality of sorts. With so little hair to anchor it, it would spin itself without provocation. It was becoming annoying. I was constantly yanking its bill back toward the front. I called the shop on Thursday. Did it arrive? No. They had received their shipment and CP wasn't a member of the party. They were sure it would be in on Friday.

I called Friday. What's the good word?

Uh...you're not going to like this.

The shop stylist promised to call the supplier and get back to me. It seems that the supplier translates the word "overnight" to mean put it on the only thing not smokin' and let it crawl toward Chicago like the muskrat it resembled.

A strangle little whimper escaped me, like a balloon losing air. I mumbled something about being disappointed, thanked her for checking and resigned myself to a long weekend of bobbleheading, followed by more hat anguish the following week.

Ten minutes later the stylist called me back and told me she had called the supplier, told them I had gone ballistic (why didn't I think of that!) and they'd better assemble another one pronto and overnight it to arrive Saturday. Would I like to set up a 3:00 Saturday appointment?

I pictured myself going ballistic, ala Patty Hearst -- calling myself Tanya, wearing a wig and toting an Uzi, and holding up banks. A great little short-term plan to beef up my 401K funds and a pretty effective way to relieve stress.

I know, I know. The plan is flawed. With my bad knee, I was sure to have some difficulty making a fast getaway, and it looked like I was going to be busy at 3 p.m. that Saturday anyway, getting that wig to land safely in Chicago and on top of my head.

Ballistic may not be my style, per se, but it was a nice little fantasy while it lasted.