Good for the Jews

3. June 2005

Chapter Three June 2005 Bike paths criss-crossed Madison, but the road to Mara Maud—a cosmetology school located in a strip mall west of town—was busy and shoulderless. Still, Ellen regularly braved the ride down University Avenue for her friend Tamar, the school’s receptionist. You’d think the school would have no trouble ‹nding people to volunteer for free services , but there had been a few incidents. “You can’t trace that gangrene to our cuticle scissors,” Maud insisted in court, and the judge agreed. Even so, people started to call the place Sweeney Todd’s. “Now,” said Tamar, “it’s like ›ying an airline after a major crash. Things are more likely to be clean here than anywhere else in the city.” Tamar was supposed to ‹nd clients for the beauty students, and Ellen did what she could to help. She’d already offered up her body for a pedicure, haircut, two chair massages and a makeup application. Tamar wanted her to have a facial, but Ellen wouldn’t; she was self-conscious about the tan mole on her face, a miniature mouse curled below her right cheekbone. Ellen routinely propped her face on her palm, hoping nobody would notice. She’d once even asked a plastic surgeon to remove the mole, but he refused, saying the scar from the surgery would be far worse than the mole, and why should a pretty girl like her worry about something no one could see anyway? Ellen felt ashamed, as if she were the kind of person who’d want 20 face-lifts and tummy tucks as she aged, but she wasn’t vain, just concerned with basic maintenance. It was like tuning up her bike. A responsibility . And though she didn’t wear makeup beyond lipstick, she liked to have her toenails painted, her ‹ngernails shaped, her legs waxed. It made her feel as if she’d ‹nished doing the laundry of herself, folded and ironed everything neatly, that she was in order. The “technician” responsible for today’s “treatment” was Kristen Howard, who’d just ‹nished her ‹rst semester at the beauty school. “She ›unked client relations,” Tamar con‹ded as she guided Ellen to the massage table on which Ellen was to rest. Tamar had attended a different beauty school but been hired on the strength of her tattoos— elaborate vines and birds that she’d designed for her arms alone. “You have to tell me if she says anything outrageous.” Ellen raised her eyebrows. “Darling, I don’t think so.” “Oh, come on,” Tamar goaded. They’d been friends since junior high, conjoined (initially) by the poorly attended events their synagogue ’s rabbi planned for Madison’s always-disintegrating Jewish youth group. “I guarantee you’ll get some dirt.” “Well, I’ll be too much of an upright citizen to share it.” “Ph-shht,” Tamar said, a de›ating beach ball sound. She knew she’d get her way in the end. “Like my hair?” Tamar was wearing it in two small buns, little knobs behind her ears. “Looks great.” “Anyway, you’re going to like this. I told her to do the herbal body wrap. It’ll be like she’s making you into a human burrito. You’ll sweat out your toxins.” This appealed. Ellen was working, half-consciously, on purity. Whole foods. Filtered water. Pajamas—not that she could afford it—of organic cotton. “So clothes off,” Tamar said, giving Ellen a quick kiss goodbye, “get between the sheets, and Her Awfulness will arrive.” Moments later, a dark-haired, statuesque woman pressed into the room. “Hey, I’m Kristen. I’ll be your technician today.” She wore a short, ‹tted black skirt and peachy-pink shirt. With her high heels and makeup, she might have been a person spritzing perfume at a department store. “So we’re going to do a body wrap today?” She’d pulled her 21 hair tightly back from her head and secured it in a bun. (“Looks like her eyeballs are going to pop out,” Ellen’s mother once said of a neighbor who wore her hair in a similarly severe fashion.) “Oh, yeah, thanks,” Ellen said, embarrassed, her eyes tearing slightly at the memory of her mother’s words. She could recall her mother saying, “Did you go to the potty?” and get similarly choked up. Everything she could salvage from the ‹rst...