In 2013, my mother was undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer. She was an extraordinarily dignified woman — but losing her hair meant she stopped coming downstairs for dinner. I took her to every wig boutique in New York. The wigs that cost two or three thousand dollars had coarse polyester mesh linings that scraped against her bare, sensitive scalp like sandpaper. I kept asking myself: why is no one willing to make a truly gentle wig — one that feels like a second skin — for the women who need dignity the most?