Oneiron

way that was difficult to define. Her black hair looked plastic, her bangs were short, and she had no eyebrows, or they had been completely plucked away; thin violet lines had been drawn in their place. Her eyes were large, and the Cupid’s bow of her lips was painted with exaggerated sharpness; it matched the sharp, narrow line of her jaw and the violet eyebrows. A face like that should have had a plumb frame beneath it, a body with military bearing, but no, the thin (of course thin!), nearly gaunt woman was not at all august. Her body was not particularly worthy of her unique face. She stood slouching before her counter, or, if you considered it from another angle, that slouching demeanor completed her face, strained and ready to bolt, providing it with an appropriate counterweight. Maybe one of her legs was shorter than the other. When she walked up to Wlibgis from behind the counter, she walked unevenly, limping, slightly dragging one leg.

Let us call her “Owner K”. Owner K. looked Wlibgis straight in the eyes, which darted nervously under the scarf that surrounded her pale face, and said, “Did you come for this?” Then she pointed back and up to the left, where the orange-red hair sat coquettishly on a mannequin head with heavy make-up. “No-o,” Wlibgis managed to say. She had just had her first throat operation, and the radiation had destroyed her salivary glands, but she still had her vocal chords and was able to utter that dry, gravelly “no-o”; actually a very distressed “no-o”. No orange wig! Did she, a fifty-eight-year-old woman, look like she was going to run down the street with an orange wig billowing in the wind?

Wlibgis irritably, almost demonstratively, began trying on other wigs. First her own color, an auburn bob cut. Strangely, it didn’t suit her at all. She looked like she had a bowl cut. Blond curls made her look like an old wino, black hair like a witch, the various shades of brown: all just as unnatural and ugly. The hair was high quality, Owner K. assured her, skillfully handmade, which was why the prices were so high, but there was a wig for each head, and she could see that now was a time for setting aside prejudices and trying that orange. Holding back her tears, Wlibgis took the wig being offered and put it on her pickle-shaped head.

And behold: it fitted as if it were made for her. And it even made her gray skin glow! Her lashless eyes were no longer pale, they were steely; they had a depth they’d never had before, and Wlibgis knew: this wig was hers. She took ten seconds to poll her attitude. Should she allow those three incidents of fornication and the shameful details surrounding them to spill out into the open: the smudged mascara, the smeared lipstick, and the scratchy stubble? Should she allow those shoving penises to come and shove into her, in her memories, again and again . . . ? Or was this wig something different? Was it just a beautiful red, well-fitting wig, and nothing more?

Wlibgis gave in. Joy filled her when she turned in front of the large mirror with a smaller mirror in her hand, looking from the side and back and every angle. She smiled. She simply couldn’t help smiling. “I knew it instantly,” Owner K. exclaimed but not at all in a scolding way. She was overjoyed too. She had a professional eye for this sort of thing, and she saw as soon as this woman stepped through the door that she needed a wig for her sorrows. The agony that lay in her face was the sort that one could only survive with a healthy dose of bright orange.

Owner K. was satisfied. For once, a customer consented to see the truth about herself! It was a good sign. A sign of life. Some, you see, couldn’t give up their illusions even with advanced cancer. They had decided that a white cloud of curls suited them, even though they weren’t rosy-cheeked princesses any more; they were pale, too thin, or too swollen mortals. They spent a fortune on the wrong hair and vowed to themselves that they would get used to it and were almost hurt when Owner K. told them that the hair should feel like their own instantly. They didn’t believe it. Injured pride shone in their eyes as they asked Owner K. in cold, tense tones to box up the wrong wig for them. They would pull their hat or scarf or hood tight on their bald or almost hairless head and slip out—KLING!—and decide not to practice with their new hair until they got home. But some of them came again. And Owner K. was kind enough to allow them to trade the wrong wig for the right one.

Owner K. congratulated Wlibgis heartily for her correct choice: “It’s like it was made for you, even if you didn’t believe it at first. You know, a person’s face really does change when they experience a tragedy. It leaves marks that anyone who looks carefully can see. I saw them immediately on you. I could see that you need color. Color won’t hurt you; it’ll make you a woman again. If you’ll allow me to say so, you sparkled. Ten hard years fell away all at once.”

Wlibgis paid and wasn’t the slightest bit offended by Owner K.’s words, which in some other situation might have sounded intrusive, and so they were. But Owner K. knew she spoke the truth, as always, and she also knew that her customer understood this time. So Wlibgis tripped lightly out of the shop—KLING!—and couldn’t help but twirl her new orange hair one more time in front of the window—goodbye!

Wlibgis’s fire wig becomes the heart of the kitchen. A wordless decision, Shlomith’s gentle nod: This is our kitchen. Polina dramatically removes her sable fur: Let this be the couch. After this