18th April, 2025
- Black Lawyer
- Apr 18
- 2 min read
Entry No. 191: “The Wig, the Witness, and the War on Gravity”
Filed under: Bundles, Bar Cards & Courtroom Carnage
Dearest Diary,
There are trials that shift precedent.
And then there are trials that shift the entire hairline of legal professionalism.
It was Day Two of trial. Custody case. Mild tension. Mild theatrics. The type of matter that requires stamina, prayer, and waterproof concealer.
Opposing counsel, a barrister of considerable boldness and questionable bobby pin security, rose from her seat with the confidence of a woman who has never known shame—or static electricity.
She approached the witness with Exhibit D.
But alas, D stood not for Document, but for Downfall.
She dropped the exhibit.
She bent to retrieve it.
And in one tragic movement… her wig—glorious, voluminous, and clearly unbothered by gravity—caught on the edge of the counsel table.
And then—it took flight.
Diary, it detached itself from her scalp like it had served its time and was ready for freedom.
It hovered for a moment—mid-air, like a courtroom halo—and landed directly in front of the witness stand. Lace front up. Justice down.
The witness gasped.
The jury leaned forward like it was Broadway.
My client covered his mouth..
And the judge?
The judge—, resplendent in her black robes and untouchable contempt—lowered her reading glasses with the silent authority of someone who had seen many things, but not this.
She blinked once. Twice.
And then asked:
“Counsel, will the hair be reentered into evidence?”
Reader, I nearly burst into flames.
Opposing counsel, unfazed and now wigless, stood tall and said,“Your Honour, let the record reflect that the truth will always come out.”
And then she picked up her wig like it was an heirloom, shook it once (to establish dominance), and reapplied it slightly to the left—like a fascinator worn in protest.
But fate, dear Diary, was not yet finished.
Ten minutes later, during redirect, she gestured too broadly—and a press-on nail flew off her finger, arched like a gymnast, and landed in the stenographer’s coffee.
The court reporter sighed audibly.
The bailiff, I swear, took a photo.
The judge muttered, “I should’ve retired in '22.”
By the end of it, the witness had forgotten her own name, my client had discovered religion, and opposing counsel’s wig had been cross-examined more thoroughly than her questions.
Because in court, you may argue law.
You may present evidence.But if your hairpiece performs a mic drop mid-trial?
The court will remember.
I remain, as ever—Composed. Covered. And Clutching My Edge Tamer in Silent Solidarity.
Disclaimer:This entry is a fictionalized satire. Any resemblance to actual wigs, witnesses, or courtroom projectile nails is entirely coincidental—but undeniably iconic.
Tag someone whose legal strategy includes a backup unit in their briefcase.
#TheCourtMayRiseButThe WigDidNot#LegalDramaWithASideOfEdges
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