Take a Cut

Y

ou know that whole “my sheitelmacher is my therapist” stereotype? Well, it doesn’t apply to me. I hate people. Haha, just kidding… sort of. It’s like my personality and my skill set couldn’t agree on who I would be. Let’s do something introverted, said my personality. But look how talented we are, said my hands.

And thus you have: the Shy Sheitelmacher. Ta-da! I have a plaque and everything.

Omigosh, sometimes I embarrass myself with my own thoughts. I grab a broom, sweep some hair off the floor, change out of my FitFlops — the only way to cut! — and get ready to do my usual Wednesday afternoon stock up. A glance at my watch tells me I have exactly an hour and a half until I have to be waiting on the carpool line at Gali’s summer camp. And… go! Makeup, shoes, bag, and I’m out the door.

Gourmet is packed, as usual, but I have a system. I methodically make my way down each aisle, and only allow myself to put items into the cart if I would be able to explain its purchase to both my husband and my grandmother. Foolproof plan, right there. And working, right up until I spy the Jolly Ranchers. Mendy would get it, I mean he’d help me eat them, but Bubby would not have approved or understood. My hand hovers over the pack — Yes? No! Yes? No! — and then I jump, startled, because someone exclaims, “Faigy!” really loudly, in my ear.