It was always about the sheitels. The wigs. Only it came out “vigs” when Ruth Singer said it. Orthodox Jewish brides begin to cover their hair after marriage, and Ruth’s shop in Williamsburg of exclusive custom and extravagantly luxurious wigs made her a decent living. Some of the women who came to her were no prizes in Ruth’s private opinion, but in her wigs, the women all thought they were Miss America.
During the day Ruth was busy. The brides-to-be came laughing into her shop, talking about their husbands-to-be, giggling and whispering about what would happen on their wedding night. Always with the sex they talked. The pretty ones were like delicate flowers. Ruth got caught up in their joy, and pictures like slides clicked through her mind of her own wedding night with Nathan so many years ago. But she only borrowed the girls’ joy. Ruth had no joy, she had only her wigs. She wouldn’t be Ruth without the wigs. She would disappear.
The nights, after the store closed, were hard. No one came to see her at night. Of course, her son, Benjamin lived in L.A. she reasoned, and he did call when he had time. Her daughter, Devorah, the busy gynecologist and women’s libber (no children of course), visited once in a blue moon.
Friends? What friends? Her so-called friends had disappeared when Nathan died. He was the friendly one, the happy one, the one who didn’t care how his pastrami was sliced, or how many days it had been raining, or how long the clerk took to run his credit card at the deli. Ruth was strange, their friends thought. Oh, they loved her sheitels, but Ruth herself? She didn’t quite fit in after Nathan died. She hadn’t really fit in when he’d been alive they nodded in agreement.
Ruth didn’t know how to be happy. She tried, it just didn’t work. When she smiled it felt as if her mouth was grotesquely stretched across her face. She knew she was supposed to feel something in life, but she didn’t feel enough. She knew what she had to do to be accepted, but couldn’t quite manage it. She pretended to understand other people, laughed when the others laughed, and cried when they cried, but it was all so confusing. The only place Ruth felt comfortable was with her wigs. They became a part of her, they accepted her, the wigs didn’t criticize or make fun. Ruth caressed them, brushed them, talked to them, and mourned them when they left her shop.
When the lonely nights got to be too much, Ruth thought of Mr. Koski, the jeweler, who worked next to her wig store. How does a woman invite a man to Shabbos dinner? Ruth wondered, never having done that in her life. Was it even proper? Her Nathan had been the only man to even look at her. And he was obligated, their marriage was arranged. They only met once before their marriage took place.
Her father was glad to have his eldest daughter off his hands. It didn’t matter to her family that almost-thirty Nathan was ten years older than Ruth. No one asked Ruth if it mattered. But to be fair, Nathan turned out to be a loving husband, patient with Ruth’s fears, gladly piggybacking her life on his, and supporting her in her wig store because it was the only thing that made her truly happy.
Ruth looked in the bathroom mirror at her short gray hair, thick ear lobes, the grim mouth, the wrinkles pressed around her eyes. Who would want her like this? Not even Koski.
Then the answer came to her as if from G-d, himself. Ruth rushed to her shop. She didn’t have to be like this, she could be who ever she wanted. The blond one, the short one, the curly one; they all had turns on Ruth’s head. The one she chose shone like the sun. She was giddy like the women who bought her wigs.
Eagerly, she knocked on Mr. Koski’s locked door and stood wringing her hands. She peered in where the shade gaped in the shop door’s window and saw him still behind the counter. Did he always waddle like that? Ruth wondered as he trundled to the front door. Did he have to wear a stained tie? Beggars can’t be choosers, Ruth reminded herself.
He unlocked and opened the door and his smile sagged when he saw it wasn’t a special customer. He huffed impatiently. “Oh, Ruthie, it’s you. What do you want?” He glanced at his watch. “I’m closed. Can’t this wait until Sunday?” Then Mr. Koski looked up and noticed the wig.
Ruth held her breath and forced herself to smile. If she only knew how ridiculous she looked with that fat slash of red mouth from too much lipstick. Mr. Koski burst into laughter before she could say anything about Shabbos.
“And just what is funny?” Ruth stamped her foot as heat flooded her face. Shame made sweat gather between her large breasts. His laughter wasn’t Nathan’s laughter, it was cruel. A knife in her heart.
“Your hair.” Now tears were spilling down Mr. Koski’s cheeks and his face turned as red as the rubies in his store. “Why are you wearing that wig? Trying to look like the young girls?” He stopped to cough and then to catch his breath. “You’re no spring chicken, Ruth.” He wiped his eyes with a meaty fist.
She turned and scurried away, her high heels click-clacking on the cement, her feet aching in the too small shoes she had dug out of her closet for this occasion. She heard Mr. Koski’s door slam and cut off his laughter. When she arrived at the safety of her apartment she yanked the wig off and chopped at it with scissors until the floor was covered with blonde hair. She kicked it into a pile. The fact that she had just wasted almost two thousand dollars didn’t enter her mind. Then she had a revelation.
Stupid! You should have chosen brown or black. Something to match your eyes. No wonder Mr. Koski was laughing. You looked like an aging nafka, a whore. She thought of Mr. Horowitz who owned the bakery on the other side of her wig shop. For him, she would wear a brown one. Maybe they would get married and she would have a man to share her bed again. She would think of sex like the young, innocent brides-to-be.
Ruth hurried to light the Shabbos candles. She set two places at the table. One for her and one for Nathan, of blessed memory. She pulled out the chicken and did the potatoes. A few lumps, like Nathan liked. She poured the Manischewitz cherry wine into the glasses. One for her and one for Nathan. L’Chaim. To life, she told the empty chair.
