“Why do you need to wait for a comeback to look great? Who says you need to do what everyone’s doing? If side bangs work for you, go with it”

I

have no idea how my middle name made it onto my sheitelmacher’s ticket. Seriously. If there’s one secret I’ve been guarding for the past 45 years of my life, it’s the name Kreincha. And now, someone had scribbled “Rivka Kreincha Weinberg” on the ticket that rested on my sheitel box.

Actually, I had a pretty good idea whodunit. There was only one suspect: my friend Altee Baum, who’d sweetly offered to drop the box off for me.

The salon was a zoo. At least 25 women were crammed into Huvi’s tiny basement, trying on wigs. I sidled away from the incriminating sheitel box, and, out in the privacy of the hallway, I dialed.

“Altee,” I hissed. “Kreincha? What is up with you?”

She giggled. “It was an opportunity for you to walk in my shoes, just once,” she said happily. “Try going around as Altee your entire life, with no generic name for backup.”

“I’m going to….” I let my voice trail off menacingly.

“Hey, Rivky. You’re there now? At Huvi?”

“Yessss. And the entire world is here, too, which means I’m not going back in or getting anywhere near that box.”

“The entire world is there because of the sale,” Altee said, as though explaining the concept of money to a child. “Listen, Rivky. If you wait twenty minutes, I’m coming over. The sale is BOGO. Let’s do it together.”

I forgot my name for a minute, literally. A new sheitel, hmm. I still referred to my one decent sheitel, from my daughter Chavi’s wedding, as my “new sheitel.” Chavi had just celebrated her fourth wedding anniversary.

I really could use a new “new sheitel.” And BOGO — half price. Hmm, hmm, hmm.

“Hmm,” I responded to Altee. “Maybe. I mean, we could definitely look.”

“Amazing! Wait for me, I’m running over.”

“You bet I’m waiting. Right here in the hallway, until you go inside and rip up that ticket.”

I didn’t have a Tehillim on me to pass the time productively. One day I’d buy a microscopic Tehillim that fit into my bag.

My boredom was interrupted by my ringing phone.

Kayla Sapperstein.

Calling to follow up on the Applegrad shidduch.

Mordechai Applegrad.

Top Boy in Rav Yisroel Chaim Berger’s shiur.

Top Top Top boy in every single aspect. Havanah, hasmadah, middos, yiras Shamayim, bein adam l’chaveiro.

Top Top Top boy, who I was going to pass  on because of a dumb thing like money. “Well?” Kayla demanded.

“My husband and I discussed it.” I tried keeping my voice steady. “We could commit to $1,000 a month, for five years. But, Kayla! Listen! I told you my Shulamis is getting her degree in June, right? And she’s committed to supporting her husband’s learning. She’ll be self-sufficient. And super low maintenance. Isn’t that way more valuable?”

Kayla’s surrendered sigh was my answer. “I’ll get back to you,” she said tiredly.

She wouldn’t. We both knew that. But I didn’t have time to dwell on the fact that I’d just killed my daughter’s dream shidduch, because Altee burst in. “Hello, Rivka Kreincha, you look great!”

“Alteeeeeeee.”