When I was young I wanted black hair, real black hair. I would have cut it bluntly against my neck, with bangs, so I resembled the pictures of the ancient Egyptians in the books I got at the library. I was looking at my dull brown hair in the mirror last week when I remembered from reading those books that the Egyptians of both sexes cut off their hair to mourn. So I booked an appointment with my hairdresser this morning. The lovely, the fabulous, Simon. He’s wanted to color my hair since the first gray strands began appearing at age thirty-four. When I tell him I am ready to make a change, he claps his hands. “Streaks,” he says. “I think we’ll put in some golden-brown streaks.” Instead, I shock him by demanding that he cut it short, very short, androgynous-style. I also instruct him to bleach it blonde. I want an overhaul, a total overhaul. I want, no need, to shock myself into accepting that my life has now irrevocably changed. As the hair-dye commercials promise, I want a new me.
Of course I’d read the literature on hair dye and pregnancy. Although a 2005 study suggests an association between hair dye and the childhood cancer neuroblastoma, a host of other studies on the use of hair dye before and during pregnancy haven’t reached the same conclusion. Rats fed a composite of a series of commercially available hair colorings from days six to eighteen of gestation with doses of up to 97.5 mg a day exhibited no teratogenicity. Five oxidative hair dyes were administered by gavage to rats with up to 500 mg/kg daily on days six to fifteen and again no adverse fetal effects were observed. So I feel safe proceeding with my makeover.
I make a point to avoid the mirror until Simon finishes blow-drying what is left of my hair. I watch his face instead. He has a dubious expression, like he’s being forced to eat something he doesn’t enjoy. I finally look at my reflection. I don’t recognize myself. It’s as if an ageless boy, a blond Peter Pan, is staring back at me. Someone with inner power and magical secrets. I walk out of the salon feeling considerably lighter.
Perhaps now my mourning for John can conclude. Perhaps I can begin to celebrate my new life. Because although I’ve certainly lost my much-valued personal privacy—perhaps even the respect of the greater world—haven’t I gained something significantly more important? My new self is reflected in shop windows as I walk down Mulholland Drive, and I almost laugh out loud I am so happy.
29
Samantha
I’M SITTING IN THE WAITING room of the Taylor Institute, a beautifully constructed square building, just off campus, with a fa?ade of flesh-colored stone. Only a fa?ade, because in California real stone buildings wouldn’t have a chance of surviving a major earthquake. I actually drove around the block three times before I understood that this building was the clinic. Oddly, there’s no sign, only the street number in small gold lettering, so discreetly placed among the ivy covering the stone that I had trouble locating it. When I finally figured out that this was my destination, I was stopped by a security guard hidden in a special booth off to the side of the entrance. I showed my badge, and he let me pass.
Inside, the sofas are green velvet brocade, the carpet is rich, red wine–colored and deep enough that your feet sink down into it as you walk. A smell of rose water. The hush of a library, or a church. And everyone on staff is so damn beautiful, from the receptionist, to the “intake counselor” who comes forward with a clipboard after I told the receptionist I was there to see Drs. Epstein and Kramer, John Taylor’s partners in the clinic.
“Detective,” the intake counselor says. She’s what one would call a natural beauty, with a creamy complexion and the kind of shiny hair my mother used to promise I’d have if I washed my hair with egg yolks. I’m not sure what natural means in a place like this. Was this woman’s nose her own? How about her cheekbones? “Dr. Kramer will see you now.”
She gestures at an ornate doorway with large oaken doors. I hear a low hum as the receptionist buzzes me in. I wonder at the security of the place. Are they afraid that the masses will come bearing pitchforks and demanding face-lifts and nose jobs? I’ve done my research, though. You don’t call them that anymore. Rhytidectomy and rhinoplasty are the terms they prefer. And a boob job is a breast enhancement. Right-o.
A man in an exquisite tailored suit waits for me on the other side of the doors. He is everything that Dr. John Taylor had apparently not been: tall and fit, in his midforties, impeccably turned out.
“I’m Dr. Kramer,” he says. “Please come to my office.” He leads the way to more of a sitting room than an office. If it weren’t for his medical diplomas hanging on the wall, you could have mistaken it for an exclusive men’s clubroom, complete with black leather chairs and a marble-topped coffee table. I almost expect him to offer me a fine cigar and brandy. “You’re here to talk about John’s death,” he states in a low voice, as if afraid to be overheard. It is not a question.
“Do you know of anyone who might have wished John Taylor harm?” I decide to be blunt and plainspoken. After his gentle tones, my voice sounds rough and boisterous.
“No.” The answer is given in a soft but emphatic voice. “John was the kindest, most generous man I’ve ever known. No one could want to hurt him.”
“What about his three wives?” I ask. “Did that come as a surprise to you?”
“Absolutely,” he says, but so mildly that he could have stated the opposite and I would have believed him. He straightens his already-straight tie, picks an invisible piece of lint off his trousers. Then he sees that I’m waiting for more.