Before you drag me, hear me out. Last month, I bought a bone-straight, 30-inch, double-drawn Vietnamese wig with a 5x5 closure. Total cost with installation: ₦800,000. When I posted it, the comments were wild. "You could have bought land in Ibeju-Lekki." "This is why you women are broke." "Your future husband will pay for this foolishness." First of all, I bought it with my own money from my own business. Second, I am not your investment portfolio. Third, let's talk about what that wig actually does for me. I am a real estate consultant. I meet high-net-worth clients daily. Appearance is currency in my industry. When I walk into a meeting with a polished, expensive look, I am not "frivolous" — I am signaling competence before I speak. The wig pays for itself in closed deals. But beyond business, let's talk about joy. Nigerian women carry the weight of the world. We manage homes, careers, aging parents, and a society that demands perfection. If a woman decides that her peace comes from a lace front that makes her feel like a goddess on her worst day, who are you to police that? Men spend ₦2 million on watches that do nothing but tell time. They spend ₦500,000 on sneakers. They spend millions on cars that sit in Lagos traffic. But a woman buys hair, and suddenly economics professors emerge from the bushes. The hypocrisy is loud. We are allowed to spend on everyone else — children, husbands, parents, churches — but the moment we spend on ourselves, we are "irresponsible." I reject that. My wig is my armor. My wig is my crown. And yes, my wig is my business expense. Women, do you hide how much you spend on beauty because of judgment? And men, why does our spending trigger you when yours doesn't? Let's have a respectful conversation.
