Wigstock

On the corner of Christopher & Seventh walk some of the world’s most glamorous women. Many just happen to be men. Long legs, high heels, full make up and a whole lot of sass characterize these ladies in disguise.

Crosstown in the East Village, I started my apartment hunt. In the icy Manhattan winter, I looked for my ideal new apartment in the city. The first walk-up, I looked at was in the heart of the vintage shop/coffee shop/bar/mom n’ pop’s restaurant/bodega fantasy world, I adore.

Walking to the corner of Seventh & First Avenue, I noticed the door was covered in graffiti. My eyes lit up and instantly fell in love with the urban decay. After being buzzed in, I met my potential roommate, a drag queen.

She wasn’t filled with makeup and high fashion hair. Instead, she wore very little make and her hair in a ponytail. I was fascinated. The apartment was covered in wigs.  Blonde, red, black with red and more flamboyant than though wigs lined the apartment like a proper window display at Bloomingdale’s.  She actually designed all the wigs I saw and even taught pole-dancing classes.

I stood fascinated. It was a world I knew little about even as a gay man. The world of drag was one I only read about it at books and experienced occasionally at gay karaoke.

After trying to charm me with the apartment’s disheveled interior, I saw my bedroom. It was a closet without the closet, but it screamed of the bohemian years gone by. I wanted the apartment, but decided to take my friend the event planner for a look the next day. Secretly, I hoped he would love it, since I wanted to live in the neighborhood with a quirky character.

As predicted, he saw plenty of red flags. However, his jadedness went out the window when he laid eyes on the wig collection. He asked the drag queen “ could I try them?” She gladly obliged.

My not so queen-y friend was mesmerized. Not only did he try out the wigs, he made a beautiful blonde.  As I looked at him in every hue possible, I then realized “wow wigs could really change your personality.  After walking out of the apartment, we both decided I needed to look elsewhere.

Later that day, I officially decided not to take the apartment, he texted me in disappointment. “Why did you let that apartment go?” he asked. I replied. “Remember, all the red flags?” He eventually forgave me for not letting him play with more wigs.

After letting go of that apartment, the hunt for perfect pad continued. With meeting many characters and looking everywhere from Alphabet City to Harlem, I found the perfect apartment. Located in the east 20’s, my new apartment in Peter Cooper Village/Stuyvesant Town was most ideal. I moved in and lived happily ever after in Manhattan with an elevator and view of the FDR (East Side highway).

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