It started with an Instagram ad at 2 AM—“Your dog deserves a full head of luscious locks.” I clicked faster than my dog chases squirrels. Two days later, a hot pink curly dog wig arrived, and my border collie went from “farm chic” to “Beverly Hills housewife” in under ten seconds. Her tail wagged with the smug confidence of someone who knows they just upstaged the entire neighborhood.
Suddenly, life changed. Walks turned into paparazzi moments. People stopped their cars to ask what shampoo she uses. The mailman now delivers treats with respect. One Pomeranian tried to flirt with her, but she gave him the “you can’t afford this weave” glare. I caught her looking in the mirror like she was contemplating an OnlyPaws account.
I got jealous. Not of the attention, but of the volume. I tried on the wig myself just to see what the hype was about. It fit weirdly well. My dog barked aggressively—territorial over her glam. That’s when I realized: I had been demoted to sidekick in my own home. My dog was the main character now, starring in a telenovela of her own making.
We now have a shared wig closet. I’ve accepted my fate. My dog has hair, fame, and sass. I’m just her driver.
