I

am a woman, at last.

I look at my face, enveloped by the wavy brown sheitel. The wig frames my narrow cheekbones; the pony masks my too-high forehead. I turn my head from side to side and enjoy the swish of the silken mane. I look like any other young woman, young married woman.
“How much is this one?” I ask.
“Ah, you chose one of our best pieces. A hundred percent European hair, soft and silky. You have good taste.”
Many would suck in their breath when she names the figure; I don’t. I’m prepared for the expense. I’ve been waiting for this day for years, too many years to count. Not this way, no, my dreams were more fantastic, but this will have to do.
“I’ll take it,” I say. “When will it be ready?”
“Wonderful! This sheitel is meant for you! It fits you like a glove. Just a wash, we’ll give it. Do you want us to curl it? Many kallos like curls, for the sheva brachos.”
“No, the natural waves will be fine. But when will it be ready?”
“Don’t worry, sweetie, you’ll have it in plenty of time for your wedding. It’s in Sivan, after Shavuos, no?”
Shavuos will be too late for my flight. I think quickly.

“Lag B’Omer,” I say. “I’m getting married on Lag B’Omer, I’ll want to pick it up before that.”
“Ah, a short engagement.” Ruchi the sheitelmacher smiles. “No patience, ah.”
Who is she to speak of patience? She looks like a teenager still, and is obviously showing. She probably got married right after seminary.
“No, you could say my patience has run out.”
I look solemn as I speak, not as a blushing bride should be. Ruchi gives a nervous giggle.
What does a married woman need?
Not much, it turns out. Not much more than a wig and a ring.
There is a jewelry store on my block, but a heimishe store will expect me to come on this important mission with my chassan, or at least my future shvigger. It’s simpler to drive across town, to the mall, a large cement and glass structure where nobody knows or cares that a bride is resorting to shopping by herself.
Gold glitters in the window. I never used to go into stores like these. Gold and pearls were not meant for me. When I needed new earrings, I went to a costume jewelry store and bought cheap colored-glass flowers set in copper. They felt less like real jewelry. Because jewelry is something a husband buys. That principle was deeply engrained in my psyche, despite my friends telling me I was being ridiculous and old-fashioned.
I stare into the window now, at trinkets laid out on blue velvet, ready and waiting for an adoring husband or a starry-eyed girl. I am neither, but I step closer, and the glass doors slide open, triggered by a sensor.
“How can I help you?” A man is standing behind the counter, short and dark-skinned with white hair growing in random tufts.
“I need a wedding ring.”
“Yellow gold or white?”
“White.” I decided on white gold in tenth grade, when Chumi and I planned our weddings in the back of my Chumash notebook. White gold goes better with diamonds.
He lays a tray of rings on the counter in front of me. I pick up a plain band, slip it on my finger. It feels good.
“I need an engagement ring, too,” I say.
“Diamonds or cubic zirconia?”
I want to tell him diamonds, but I say, “CZ.”
I choose a simple ring, a plain setting with a small round stone.
The rings both fit me perfectly, they don’t need adjusting. That’s me, good old Ravi, even my fingers are average.
He adds up the figures. I open my purse to pull out my credit card.
“Will you want an engraving?” he asks.

“A what?”
“An engraving on the inside of the ring. A line of poetry or something. Lots of couples are into that nowadays.”
“Oh. No. That’s okay, thanks.” I try to smile.
I stride into the shul hall, confident in my favorite beige suit. My high-heeled shoes match perfectly. When you’ve been in shidduchim as long as I have, you learn to put together a chic outfit. I’m no longer the shy seminary girl on her first date. Some would say the change came too late, but at least now I can enjoy it, and there are no pitying glances. I lean forward to pour myself a drink and stand, twirling the cup in my hand, ever conscious of the new sheitel swaying at my shoulders. I’ve flown halfway around the globe to be able to wear it.

I not only covered my ponytail. I covered my lack, my loss. I’m not poor Ravi anymore. I’m Liora Avigail Cohen, a married woman. The name Ravi stuck with me since kindergarten, but finally I’m rid of it, starting a new life with the new name.

A young woman, Dina, comes over to me. She had introduced herself as we were going into shul.

“Good Shabbos, Liora. Did you enjoy?”

“It was lovely,” I say. “So spiritual.” I’m telling the truth. Finally I can daven without feeling eyes in my back and whispers in the corners, checking how much I sway and how many tears I shed. Finally I can walk out of shul without well-meaning women coming over to tell me that they pray for me and that my pleas can open the gates of heaven.