Chapter 4 #2
“Okay, okay. Sheesh. I’ll pick something else.” I collect the offending garment and rehang it, choosing a black tee with white lettering along the chest that says Bookmarks are for Quitters. “Is this better?”
Kitty Purry lifts her paw like the maneki-neko cat that sits beside the register at my favorite sushi restaurant. I guess she approves.
Before my hair started falling out, I wasn’t much of a skirt or dress girl.
Overalls were more my thing. But when I no longer had what people call “a woman’s crowning glory,” I also started to no longer feel very feminine.
A bald head is so inherently masculine. Add the loss of eyebrows and eyelashes .
. . yeah, I started searching for other ways to feel my femininity.
Enter the pencil skirt.
Stretchy enough to still be comfortable but with distinct lines that enhance the female form.
I feel womanlier in a pencil skirt, so I wear them every day, paired with a bookish graphic tee and a pair of high-tops for comfort and practicality.
Heels may be fundamentally feminine, but I’m likely to twist an ankle if I try to balance on them, and there is nothing graceful or ladylike about limping.
I dress, and Kitty Purry follows me to the bathroom, jumping on the vanity and positioning herself by the sink.
Some people may find it weird, but my cat thinks she’s human—a queen, really—and therefore does her grooming in the bathroom like every other diva.
As I layer on foundation, she licks at her paw and rubs the limb over her ear.
My temporary eyebrow tattoos are still very much intact, so after I apply the normal makeup (foundation, blush, lipstick), I reach for the false eyelashes, glue, and tweezers.
The learning curve to applying false lashes is steep, but I’ve been doing it every day for so long now that the movements of swiping the glue brush along the edge and then having a pair of tweezers so close to my eyeball is second nature.
I don’t even flinch anymore. Kitty Purry doesn’t try to bat them off the vanity anymore either.
I blink a few times and inspect myself in the mirror, turning my head left and right to view from profile.
Profile is always the worst. I can’t ignore the roundness of my crown or the bump off to the side near the top of my head that hair used to cover.
I can’t help but be reminded of the early nineties film Coneheads, although the shape of my cranium is more asymmetrical than exaggeratedly pointed.
My wig sits on a faceless mannequin bust on the corner of the vanity.
The first time I’d stepped foot in a wig shop, I’d had no idea what I was doing.
Granted, I hadn’t known that I’d need the equivalent of a master’s degree to buy a wig, but you don’t know what you don’t know.
It took about three seconds to realize I should’ve done my research first. The attendant tried to be helpful with her questions—Did I want a lace front, full lace, or cap wig?
Real hair or synthetic? If synthetic, then did I have a preference on fiber types like polyester, acrylic, Kanekalon, or polyvinyl chloride?
I’d almost run out of the store but instead forced my feet to stay put as I politely told the clerk I’d just look around on my own.
The price of the real hair wigs made me choke, especially when I learned that they only lasted about a year before needing replacement.
One decision down. The full lace and lace-front wigs were beautiful, the hairs individually hand-tied into a thin, almost invisible lace material that made the hairline and part look the most natural.
Honestly, in the display pictures, I couldn’t even tell the models were wearing wigs.
But those came with a pretty steep learning curve.
Depending on the wig, I’d have to pluck or bleach some of the knots, and with all of them, I’d have to trim the lace around my face without ruining anything as well as learn how to apply an adhesive to get the wig to stay in place.
One day I may feel confident enough and have the budget to try a lace-front or even a full lace wig, but I was so overwhelmed that day at the store. I just needed something I could put on and not be able to screw up. That’s when I tried on my wig.
I lift the synthetic hair from its stand and shake out the strands that feel nothing like my hair used to. Even though the strands’ texture is thick and coarse to my touch, it isn’t too bad. I set it on my head, adjust it just so, and look at myself in the mirror.
The first time I’d seen myself wearing this wig, it was like I’d found me again.
The best way I can describe it is from a scene in the movie Hook with Robin Williams. Peter Pan/Robin Williams returns to Neverland as an adult and the Lost Boys don’t recognize him because he grew up.
One little boy starts inspecting Peter Pan’s older and wrinkled face, smooshing it this way and that, then he pushes Peter Pan’s cheeks into a wide smile and says in recognition, “Oh, there you are, Peter.”
When I’d put this wig on in the store and looked in the handheld mirror, I’d said to myself, “Oh, there you are, Evangeline,” even though the cut isn’t one I’d ever had before and the color is a light shade of almond, at least three gradients lighter than what I’d been born with.
The curtain bangs hide the abrupt hairline of the machine-made piece while also framing my face and drawing attention to my cheekbones.
The rest of the hair in the wig is pre-styled in shoulder-length beach waves that hold their shape with minimal effort from me.
No one has ever commented on the fact that I wear my hair the same way every day (the wig is an easy wear-and-go but not really that versatile, so I can’t change the style that much), but I figured if anyone ever did, I’d just brush it off by saying that the style is my signature look.
Finally transformed into the Evangeline Kelly that everyone in Little Creek knows, I gather my purse, plant a begrudgingly received kiss atop Kitty Purry’s head, and lock my cabin door behind me.
I stop by Mimi’s Bakery to purchase some baked goods for the human story visiting the library today and any of the patrons who want to check her out.
The idea of a living library originated in Denmark in 2000 with a model of borrowing a person instead of a book in a means to challenge stereotypes and prejudice through dialogue.
It also bridges generational gaps, broadens perspectives, and celebrates the oral traditions of long ago that have been lost by so many.
Mrs. Miriam Goldmann was supposed to visit our branch a few weeks ago as our first living book to be checked out—just in time for Valentine’s Day, as the subject of her story is marriage from a Jewish perspective—but she’d developed a nasty cold and had to reschedule.
I balance the boxes of pastries in one hand as I unlock the library door, step in, then reengage the lock. The lights are turned on, so either Hayley or Martha is already here.
“Do I smell donuts?” Martha sets down a crate of craft supplies.
Every Tuesday, she spearheads a crafternoon around a beloved children’s book.
Last week, kids made bear paws from paper bags and drew maps on butcher block paper all the while chanting “Can’t go over it.
Can’t go under it. Oh no! Got to go through it! ”
“Cronuts.” The marriage of a croissant and a donut made the most delicious offspring. “And chocolate croissants. And a few other pastries thrown in for good measure.”
“From Mimi’s?” Martha licks her lips.
“Of course.” I set the boxes down and retrieve some paper towels from the supply closet.
A couple of hours later, a woman in her eighties, white hair braided into a loose, low-hanging bun and wearing a bottle-green dress and matching overcoat, walks into the library, supported by a cane.
“Mrs. Goldmann?” I approach her with a smile.
She smiles back, watery eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I’m Miriam Goldmann. It’s been a few years since I’ve been checked out”—she winks—“but I’m ready for the opportunity for it to happen to me again.”
I lead her to the sitting area and offer her a baked good from the box. She selects a croissant and puts it on a small plate. A college-aged young woman approaches and asks to hear Mrs. Goldmann’s story, taking out a notebook and pen as she does so.
“You know the song in Fiddler on the Roof? It goes ‘Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match’? Well, a Jewish matchmaker is called a shadchanit, or a shadchan if the matchmaker is a man, and that’s where my love story starts.”
As Miriam Goldmann continues to speak and share about the great love of her life, an idea begins to form in my mind. It’s hazy, the outlines not yet well defined, but I smile. With a little fleshing out, this may just be my best idea ever.