Dolly Parton was once asked how long it takes to do her hair. To which she answered: “I wouldn’t know. I’m never there!”. It was my hairdresser who first told me just how many celebrities are wearing wigs on the red carpet. I know it’s naive, but it just didn’t occur to me that it wasn’t their real hair! Lady Gaga? Wig. Kylie Jenner? Wig. Nicole Kidman? Wig. Everyone’s at it! Apparently, hairdressers have to explain this to a lot of clueless women like me, who come into the salon with an “inspo pic” that is a wig and not real hair – and certainly not something that is achievable in under an hour at Supercuts.
I am not someone who has any experience of wig wearing, beyond donning a cheap, plastic rug for Halloween. I didn’t grow up with wigs, and I am fortunate enough not to have any health conditions that can result in hair loss. They’re just not in my wheelhouse.
Perhaps I would have known more about them if I was American because this is where the biggest wig market is, accounting for a whopping 36.38 per cent of the market share in 2025. Alas, I am just a bog standard, white woman from the north of England who foolishly thought Kim Kardashian’s hair was her own. I am a fashion wig virgin and last week I decided to pop my cherry and discover if I am missing out.
In case you missed it too, wigs are freaking huge right now. The global hair wig market was valued at $2.68bn (£1.97bn) in 2025 and is projected to reach $4bn (£2.9bn) by 2034. I don’t know much about finance, but I do know that is a hell of a lot of wigs – or maybe that only accounts for four or five good wigs, because the first thing I learned is that wigs can be eye-wateringly expensive.
If you want a brand-new wig made from ethically sourced, real human hair that won’t make you look like Sideshow Bob, then you are looking at anywhere between £400 to over £2,000. If you want a custom made one, it can cost you up to £6,000.
I wanted to try a wig, not default on a mortgage payment, so when I discovered you can buy never worn, second hand wigs on Vinted for £20, I decided that was more my speed. Of course, the risk here is that you don’t really know what you are getting, so to reduce the odds of purchasing a reject from The Muppets, I bought three: a blonde one, a red one, and a pink one.
The next thing I learned is that wig wearers are goddamn artists. If you, like me, thought wearing a wig was as simple as “put it on your head,” allow me to disabuse you of that notion. You can do that, obviously, but it will look bad, and I didn’t want to half-arse it. Thankfully, there is a plethora of information about how to “install” your wig available online and believe me, it is a whole thing. I went from knowing nothing at all to navigating a world of front lace, wig bands, wig glue, wig caps, wig melting spray, and adhesive spray. It requires tweezers, gel, hair spray, rubbing alcohol, rat tail combs, scissors, a hair dryer, and a very steady hand.
If you want to do it right, you need to hide all your own hair under a wig cap, which is trimmed around your face and ears before being stuck down. Then you need to “melt” the lace front of the wig to your own forehead with a combination of gel and/or glue, which is held in place with a wig band for up to an hour, before trimming it to size, and sticking down any lace stragglers – and this is all before you get to actually styling the hair.
I was literally and figuratively in over my head. As I stood looking at myself in a bald cap, rubbing gel and glue over where I thought my hairline would be, hoping I didn’t superglue my real hair to my face, I realised two things: firstly, I could totally rock a skinhead and, secondly, this is not an easy way to do your hair. This is high maintenance and highly skilled work.
It was a lot of fun, though. The blonde wig made me look like a slutty mermaid who had fallen on hard times. The short, red wig turned me into a school secretary who is into light BDSM on the weekends, and the pink one made me look like I owned a fruitarian cafe in Bristol.
I settled on the pink one, my friend took the red and we headed off to mingle amongst the general public and drink cocktails. Unfortunately, for the both of us it just so happened to be the hottest day of the year so far, topping 25°C in Yorkshire. These were not best conditions for a pair of perimenopausal women to be experimenting with heavy wigs for the first time. I sweat a lot at the best of times, but within a few minutes in the sun I had my make-up rolling down my cleavage and my face was even pinker than the wig.
I must have done a good job with the “installing,” though, because the wig didn’t budge. I’m sure if you do this enough, you wouldn’t think twice about wearing a wig, but I felt hugely self-conscious that everyone knew I was wearing a rug. I also kept drunkenly telling people I was wearing one, which rather shattered the illusion. “Can you tell I’m wearing a wig?” “Ma’am, this is an Argos.”
The best part of wearing a wig is taking it off at the end of the day. You know that feeling of taking your bra off when you get home and liberating your poor, constricted jubblies? Times that by a million and you’re getting close to the sensation of peeling a sweat-soaked wig off your head. I’d do the whole thing again just to experience that.
I don’t know if I am a wig convert, but my respect for wig wearers is now off the charts. I had no idea of the work that goes into wearing them well. This is a high maintenance game with very little margin for error. If you can’t fully commit, I’d recommend not getting involved.
They are also enormously fun and a great way to switch up your look. Unfortunately for me, the only look I managed was sweaty hippie, but I’m sure I could have come up with something better if I’d been willing to invest more money in a better wig.
If nothing else, I can’t recommend wearing a wig to go day drinking enough, just pick a cooler day to do it.