The Wooden One

We awakened after dusk and had tried to figure out our birth names; with no luck.
The one-armed and bald-patched ones said they woke up altered. They told me not to trust reality.
I asked one of them what my purpose is but she never replied.
I made friends with a wooden one. He tells me tomorrow I’ll be gone; because I’m new.
He tells me my owner will decorate me in exorbitant glamour. And that if I’m lucky, I won’t get damaged and returned. He wants me to enjoy my first, maybe last, night with him. So I do.