Milk Fed - Melissa Broder Page 0,72

it. When I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror, nothing had happened yet. My hair was no different. But staring into my own eyes, I felt like I was already changing, that another person was looking at me. Then he moved the scissors around my head with a rapid motion, and I saw some of my long locks fall to the floor. As they fell, I felt that they were the locks of another person—not mine. I imagined they were the payos of Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel. I closed my eyes again and listened to the buzz of the electric razor, humming along. I hummed “Oseh Shalom,” the old version of the song I had known. I felt a wild rush.

I was still humming when I got into my car. It had been a few minutes since the barber had cut the last of it off, but I had no regrets. I looked in the mirror. I was handsome, foxy. I liked my long neck. Or did I look like a potato? No, I had a nice-shaped head. I started the car. Then I looked in the mirror again. I saw a flash of colors behind me: pink, blue, yellow, green.

I turned around and looked at the back seat.

“What the fuck?”

Lying there, as though it had been with me all along and was just coming for another ride, was the clay figure.

CHAPTER 65

I thought about throwing it out the car window. But that wasn’t good enough. What if it came back again, like a zombie in Breathers?

I decided I would burn it. I bought a lighter at 7-Eleven, but Theraputticals was apparently nonflammable. I just kept singeing my hand.

I decided I would microwave it to death. But when I took it home, I brought it into bed with me instead. I lay there on my dirty sheets, crying next to it. It smelled like baby powder.

I wasn’t sure if I was crying over Miriam or the strangeness of finding the figure again or because of my missing hair.

The heart gets wounded—so what? I thought. I’d seen all the plays. I should have been prepared. Love goes. But what I hadn’t known was how good the love would feel when it was there, like a hymn moving through me all the time. Or if Jews didn’t have hymns, then a rhythm. I’d moved my body in time to it the best I could. But I hadn’t been able to hold on.

I touched my hands to my head. I noticed I could feel them more closely against my scalp. It felt good at least to be able to offer myself comfort in this way, so close, skin to skin.

I rubbed my head and cried for a long time. Then I stood up and went to the mirror, mussing my hair around, what was left of it, pushing it forward and back. It looked better like this, messy on purpose, not frozen stiff the way V-neck had gelled it. It was maybe even cute. It looked cool when I parted it on the right side and tousled the left and the back. There was a surfer iteration where I pushed all the hair forward and roughed up the front.

“Punk,” I said out loud and gave myself the finger, kissing the air.

My stomach felt hollow. It made a little noise like it was crying. I called the fake ’50s diner down the street and ordered a grilled cheese, french fries, a chocolate milkshake, and a Diet Coke. After I ordered, I played with my hair some more in the mirror.

“What do we think?” I asked the clay figure.

The clay figure said nothing.

“What good are you?” I asked.

I took the figure outside with me anyway. I walked down the street with it dangling from my hand, like a child holding her favorite dolly. People looked at me as I walked. I wondered if they were looking at me because of my new haircut or because I had been crying or because I was clutching a colorful clay figure. I didn’t care whether they thought I looked good.

CHAPTER 66

“Damn, Rachel!” said Ofer when he saw my hair.

I wasn’t sure if it was a good damn or a bad damn, but it seemed like a bad damn. Regardless, he caught himself quickly. I watched him flay himself internally, probably using the phrase body shaming.

“Cut your hair, I see,” he said, trying again. “Looks—empowering! Great to see you empowering yourself.”

Just shut the fuck up, I