The Salaryman's Wife(44)

“The problem will be straightened out soon, Miss Shimura. Everyone is helping,” she said in good English with the high-pitched, eager-to-please intonation that told me she was close to my age and probably very pretty. The office lady voice; I sounded like a bear in comparison.

“What exactly is a tsuya? Is it the funeral?” I asked.

“No. The cremation ceremony is for relatives only. The tsuya comes first, so friends and neighbors can say good-bye to the deceased. There will be an altar in the home where people will offer prayers and discuss with each other their remembrance of the loved one.”

“I don’t know the etiquette.” With my face, I couldn’t get away with social blunders.

“You must wear black, and the only acceptable jewelry is pearls, which of course represent tears. Also, if you can bring a kden, it would look right.”

She was talking about a gift of money—Japan’s favorite, all-purpose present—tied up in a ceremonial envelope with black and silver cords. I could find it at any stationer. I started worrying about the proper amount to enclose and whether I’d need to present a name card or some evidence of my identity.

“I’ve thought about this. You will be a new O.L.—an office lady—from Sendai. Mr. Ota said you are young, so—” she gave a wistful laugh—“what else could you be but an O.L.?”

“I don’t look right. My hair…”

“Yes, I heard. I am reserving a wig at the beauty salon so you will be more normal.”


My day had become very complicated. I needed to borrow a black suit from Karen, get fitted for the wig, and keep the lunch date I’d set up with Mrs. Chapman. After that I had to show up at Nichiyu, where I’d concoct an excuse to leave two hours early. Then I would take a long ride in a packed commuter train to Setsuko’s tsuya in the suburbs. I became tired just thinking about it.

I decided to combine Mrs. Chapman and the beauty parlor. When I called, she said she was due for a styling anyway. We met at Hibiya Station and followed the directions to one of Tokyo’s few surviving art deco buildings in a cluster of pricey real estate near Hibiya Park.

“It’s like my beauty operator’s back home!” Mrs. Chapman said as I held open the Oi Beauty Salon’s frosted-glass door. Inside my eye was caught by a deserted row of old-fashioned bubble hairdryers, and a wall full of foam heads topped by horrible fluffy wigs. The place was a postwar treasure. I could imagine General MacArthur’s wife sauntering in for a comb-out prior to lunching at the Imperial Hotel a few blocks away.

Mrs. Oi, a tiny wrinkled woman who looked like she’d been working since the Occupation, bowed deeply to Mrs. Chapman and shouted for the shampoo girl to bring coffee. When Mrs. Oi turned to me, I tried not to flinch as she stroked through my hair, commenting on its barbaric shortness. Yes, a wig would be just the thing to make me over until I grew my hair out to a proper womanly length.

“Are you going to a wedding or something? Would madam like a traditional hairstyle?” She scrutinized me closely.

“Actually, a party,” I said. Mrs. Oi looked surprised; maybe people didn’t rent wigs for parties. I improvised, “My in-laws will be there, and they cannot know I cut my hair last month.”

“We always have to please the husband’s family, neh? It’s the woman’s way,” Mrs. Oi trilled, leading me to a selection of dark Japanese wigs. There were two basic styles: either long, straight and modern, or ornately upswept in the manner of a nineteenth-century geisha.

She placed a half-dozen wigs over my head until we were both satisfied with a silky, synthetic mane that hung straight to the middle of my back. For the first time in my life, I looked totally Japanese.

“This is your look,” Mrs. Oi said firmly. “You should not have cut your hair. If you are serious about having long hair, maybe you should buy the wig and wear it until your short hair grows out.”

“No, a rental is perfect. To tell the truth, I’d like to go back and forth between short and long. I’m sort of impulsive that way.”

“Not so many ladies rent wigs these days. It is a shame. It’s a good way to change your look, put a little spice back in the marriage.” She began laboriously writing a receipt with gnarled fingers decorated with heavy jade and pearl rings.

After finishing my business, I poured my own cup of coffee and sat down to wait for Mrs. Chapman. She’d been shampooed and was now sitting under one of the large bubble dryers with a Tokyo Weekender on her lap. She shouted something at me which I couldn’t hear over the whine of the dryer.

“What’s that?” I came closer.