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I stared at the wig on the Styrofoam mannequin head, appreciating the precipice I was about to cross. For most, an evening of wig wearing might be filed under “No Biggie,” but for me, the moment was nothing short of an existential crisis. I first wrestled my husky frame into women’s clothing sometime during the inaugural life-altering season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Borrowing a shapeless, strapless brown velour dress and chunky sandals from my older sister Pam’s closet, I added a slim gold waist chain I’d swiped from the jewelry counter in the local mall’s department store. Despite pressure