Eight weeks have gone by since the coronavirus entered our lives. There are growing calls to end the collective lockdown that has been imposed on us for such a long time, but in the Israeli air, you can feel that something has changed.
From a people who have become used to gaggling at supermarket checkout counters, who consider the word "space" as nothing more than a recommendation or a loanword from another planet, who shove others waiting in line as if it was the most normal thing to do, we have suddenly become desert islands and clusters of hostility.
Pedestrians have created a two-meter perimeter around them to shield them from society. The requirement to place a mask on one's face leads to people losing eye contact. And now that touching is no longer allowed, I have this urge to touch to get into people's territorial space and to annoy them with existential questions. It is hard for me to hide this simple pleasure I get when I see their frightened face.
I have always preferred to be locked up inside a room with the jazz music I so much hate so long as no one touches me. I prefer to write my novel on Whatsapp than to have someone approach me and try to massage me or put makeup on my face.
The elders can remember an incident that took place during my wedding: My aunt waving with her lipstick in her hand, chasing me while screeching and threatening the rabbi that if my she does not get to put lipstick on my lips the ceremony is canceled. My serious look as I was staring at the rabbi made it clear who was going to win. Then, after the ceremony was over, with a krav maga champion's skills, I managed to repel all the cheek kissers and ran away.
The lockdown has transformed me. I find a kitschy romantic book on the street and read it diligently. Every love-making scene, during which I usually grab a barf bag, now gives me double pleasure: because of the actual contact and because the establishment did not put its hands on the lovers. Not yet. Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe, you can still stroll along the romantic tales of Avonlea.
I discover that the easing of the lockdown allows me to visit the beauty salon, and somehow, during my daily stroll, I find myself next to the local beautician's shop. I take in the smell of nail polish and acetone, the cremes and the wax, and decide to walk in.
The receptionist looks shocked as I enter. "The problematic one has arrived," she says. From one of the rooms, the beautician emerges. "You got it wrong, honey, the bookstore is one floor down," she says. "No, I am here for you," I respond, watching her go into anaphylactic shock. I then proceed to make my order: "Dual treatment, at least two hours, take out all the black spots you can find with no mercy."
The staff looks at me with awe as I get on the bed. At that moment the torture bed looks like the throne of the Queen of Sheba. I savor the moment, and from outside I hear women chat. The melody plays in my mind like a beloved hymn. Someone enters the room and says she "only has a question," and rather than feel outraged, as is normally the case in such circumstances, I tell her, "Please, by all means, ask as many questions as you want. It is so much fun being three in a room."
In the mirror, I notice that the beautician is pointing at me. "This one, with the ponytail," she says. She puts gloves on her hands, tightens the mask on her face, and begins the treatment. I succumb to her, and my muscles are relaxed, my eyelids are not fluttering and my nerves are not tense. The silence of touch is now all-present. "Are you ok?" she asks me occasionally? "Sure," I respond and feel her immense personality. "Now this will hurt a bit. Tell me, when was the last time you had treatment on your face? Was it at the beginning of time?".
The hours go by, the touch feels good. Stolen water is sweet, and secret acetone is great. The beautician decides to dare and ask if I want a pedicure and manicure.
"Yes," I respond.
"Would you like regular or gel polish?"
"Whatever takes more time," I respond.
I get out of the salon with great perfumes spreading nice smells around me. My skin is gentle, and the epidermis layers are now open for business. My nails now have shining red polish beaming from them. At that very moment, I don't know whether this will stay forever and long after the virus is gone.
