As told by the daughter:
My mom shows up at my front door in the middle of the afternoon, unannounced.
…
“So, there’s fake hair and real hair,” she says. “Fake-hair wigs last six months on average. Real hair is more expensive, but it lasts for over a year.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“A few hundred versus a thousand, I think.” She looks at me and I look back, spatula in the air, trying to keep my face blank — to sidestep the subject of “lasting,” and months and years. Since her cancer diagnosis, she’s had a full-day surgery, two hospital stays, genetic sequencing, and six rounds of chemo. Each milestone has led to more bad news. The five-year survival rate for leiomyosarcoma is 14 percent, I know that by heart. Everything I read says she has nine to 15 months to live. (She will be gone in less than a year, but we don’t know that yet.) “Someone has to be in that 14 percent,” she tells me, whenever I suggest she start withdrawing her retirement early. So, we eat lunch and make plans to check out a wig store this evening and then see a movie.
OK, a non-Jew undergoes a death-bed conversion to tayere tznius. But then, why the movie?! Maybe the movie is also tznius. Is the mother even married?
Ending:
Back the car, I do a three-point turn, directing us toward the movie theater. By the time I shift from reverse to drive, I’m jubilant. “I didn’t think we’d actually buy one today!” I say, looking over at Mom, now fitting her wool beanie back on her bald head. “Me neither!” she answers. It feels like we’re two teenagers who just got our ears pierced, or something equally wholesome and indulgent. I wonder what else we can do — how else we can chase this feeling, before it’s no longer available to us.
The sheitel macher — shock! — is also a goy, name of Brian. (I was hoping he’d be the Avoda Zara mashgiach, but I hear those don’t actually show up).