To Marina Sirtis' hairstylist, whoever he or she may be.
The ritual was rarely performed any more outside of Israel, and even there was not a common occurrence. Only in a few hyperconservative enclaves were the progressives and the feminists disregarded enough for the rite to be preserved in all its archaism.
The woman was dark, petite and young, about my age, twenty-one. She was dressed like a conservative American businesswoman. She was undressed, smoothly, gently, efficiently, by two elders appointed for the task. Naked, she seated herself in an ornate chair in the center of the room, and tilted her head back over the back of the chair. The few observers, mainly members of either family, but also the few members of the current conversion class, and a very few very close friends of such members, looked on with stoicism. An elder brandishing a large pair of scissors administered a short, sloppy boys' cut. A shaver reduced this to barely visible stubble, an almost nonexistent crew cut. A razor and lather made her head completely smooth.
As they began to shave her eyebrows, I squirmed uneasily. Throat dry, crotch stiff, I stole a glance at Rebecca. Like everyone else, she was staring, raptly, attentively, expressionlessly ahead. I turned my eyes back to do likewise.
The young woman then raised her arms, and the two men went to work on her underarms, where there was only the faintest bit of fuzz, anyway. After they had finished her armpits, one of the men gently grasped her right ankle and raised her leg, keeping it straight. Though it did not look like it needed it, the leg was shaved. As was the left.
The woman scooted forward to the edge of the seat and spread her knees apart. Her pubic hair was shaved away with a perfunctory air, a disinterest which I found much more odd than the act itself. Good, I thought. They are finished.
But they were not. She assumed a fetal position of the floor. With a diminutive pair of scissors, one of the men gently and painstakingly clipped as best he could the short, minute strand of hair between her buttocks. I goggled.
The woman remained in that position. At no discernible signal from anyone, the spectators, witnesses, began filing out of the room. We filed into a lobby area to join the others, and to wait. I continued through the lobby area towards the exit.
"Where are you going?" Rebecca asked. "We've got to stay for the wedding itself. They're expecting us."
"Expecting you," I corrected. "I've seen enough."
* * *
Several days later. My local supermarket. As the checker lethargically scans the items and the minutes drag on into eternity, I watch the bagger. She, too, is about my age. Chinese. Very beautiful. To alleviate my boredom in a sexist way, I visualize her bagging my groceries utterly naked. I am good at such exercises. I have had much practice. Suddenly, she is devoid not only of all of her clothing, her buttock-flesh bouncing lightly with every movement of her torso, but devoid of all of her hair, as well. I start and blink. Once again, she is fully clothed and in possession of her silken, raven-black hair. I turn my attention to the Oreo cookies and carton of orange juice disappearing into the pseudo-bio-degradable plastic bag.
Such things did not happen to me often. The effects wore off quickly, though I did, over the course of the next few days, while watching television with the help of my mind's eye, have the opportunity to see what Connie Chung, Phylicia Rashad and Gates McFadden look like hairless. Then such things stopped. Well, for the most part, anyway. Every so often, though...and every so often, I think that, though I broke up with Rebecca shortly thereafter, and though I never took classes, I have myself undergone a conversion of sorts.
Tim Scott is a native Chicagoan. When not busy fantasizing about local news anchor Linda Yu, he is writing, reading (Faulkner half the time) and overdosing on mocha Viennese at certain coffee houses. He has been in small press long enough to have learned how to eat contributors' copies.
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