by Frances Cha
“I know, I know, how cliché can I get?” Miho says, laughing when she sees our expressions. “I actually cried when Ara cut it off. Ara almost cried too. I was the one who had to convince her for a good twenty minutes that I really wanted to cut it. After all her hints that I needed to!”
She swishes her short hair back and forth. It has been ironed completely straight and she looks like a model blown up on the exterior of a luxury mall. “My department head might actually kill me,” she says. “Oh well.”
“It looks incredible!” says Sujin. She walks over and starts touching strands of it. “Does it feel so liberating?”
Miho nods, but her lip wobbles. “I really regretted it for an hour or two and then completely forgot about it as I was working until I saw my face in a mirror. And then I cried again. But I think I’m okay now. And Ara gave my hair to some charity so that makes me feel a bit better.”
“Ara is so talented,” I say. “Looking at you makes me feel lighter.”
“I have a photoshoot next week for a newspaper article about rising artists,” says Miho, fingering her ends self-consciously. “I told Ara I might just dye it blue tomorrow. Electric blue. I’ve always wanted electric blue hair, like Powerade.”
“Whoa, whoa. Take it one step at a time,” I say. “Give yourself a week at least to think about it. I wouldn’t recommend doing such drastic things all at once because you might regret it.”
Sujin pokes me from behind.
“See?” she says. “You would be such a natural for that job. That’s exactly what Manager Koo said to me during my first consultation. Then she sneakily recommended a dozen more things I should do.”
* * *
—
YEARS AGO, back when I was still conflicted about whether to proceed with my surgeries, I went to a well-known fortune-teller who told me that shaving my jaw would take away all the luck that follows in old age. But when she took down my name and date and time of birth and calculated my saju and my future, her face changed. She said that my later years held only terrible luck, so I should try everything I could to alter my fate.
Grimacing in pity, she told me that because of the shape of my nose, all the money that would flow into my life would flow right out again. And she told me that I had the weakest luck in love—that it would be best to marry late, if at all. She said I had the same saju as a famous historical commander, who went to war knowing he had nothing to lose because he knew the fortune of his later years, and he died with honor and glory.
It is easy to leap if you have no choice.
* * *
—
ON SATURDAY MORNING, I find myself sitting in the waiting room of Cinderella Clinic, skittish with nerves for the first time in all my visits here. I place a hand on my right knee to try to stop it from shaking, but it’s taken on a savage life of its own.
Usually when I’m here, I pass the time judging the other patients, with their oversized sunglasses and overinjected noses, typing furiously on their phones with both thumbs. Make sure Yo-han isn’t late for his Lego lesson. Did you hear that Daesu got into XX school? Or something scathing to their husbands, I am sure, although I cannot imagine what texting a husband is like. Honey, I made your favorite doenjang stew so please come home for dinner for once in your life. Or, those lipstick marks on your shirt collar wouldn’t come off so I cut it up into ribbons while you were snoring, have a nice day!
Today, however, I focus on the staff behind the desks. Three of the four pink-blazered assistants I know well but the fourth must be new. She looks young and cautious, and keeps darting glances at the other assistants typing on either side of her. I give her a hard once-over. What made them pick her? She looks stupidly timid and not pretty at all—she has not had much surgery—just her eyes and maybe filler as far as I can tell. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail and her hairline is an embarrassment of uneven, patchy fuzz. I touch my own hair out of habit. Even if I haven’t been to the salon in two weeks, my nightly hair masks have ensured that my ends are silky as seaweed.
The other assistants have been here for years, since I have started coming here. They are nice enough, with syrupy sweet voices and brutal efficiency in getting you to pay up front. They have a very particular way of making you feel as if you are lucky to be a patient here, while also giving the impression that they are secretly looking down on you, so that you end up spending a lot of money to force their respect.
Hoping that they will glance up from their screens, I try to infuse admiration into my face. My cheek muscles hurt from all this beaming.
My phone buzzes and I check my phone. It’s the manager oppa. Good morning! Hope you are having a nice day so far. What are you up to? He has sent a coffee coupon and a winking bunny emoji.
I smile in spite of myself. At first, I did not even notice his niceties—so many little things he would do for me here and there. But now there is no mistaking that he likes me. It is cute and not yet annoying.
Just a makeup lesson, I text him, because even if he is nice, he is a man and he is in Madam’s pay. Besides, probably nothing will come of this anyway.
* * *
—
THE RECEPTIONIST CALLS out a name and the woman sitting on my left gathers her things and stands. As she walks into the consultation room I hear her asking about what’s on sale this month. I’ve been coming here long enough to know that the sales don’t mean much because you can haggle about anything, but that doesn’t stop me from leaning over to the brochure rack and picking up the latest flyer.
“Get Ready for Summer!” A girl in a scarlet bikini is posing by a pool and the sale prices are listed below. Only the “petite” procedures—the noninvasive ones—are featured. I’m sorely tempted by the “Strapless Package,” which includes Botox for the back of the shoulders, “fat kill” injections for the underarms, and a choice between Healite II LED therapy or cryotherapy. I tried Healite several times last summer and I liked the results. Going down the list, I am reminded I need more armpit whitening and lip edge injections because the little curls on either side of my lips have begun to droop. I blink and make myself snap out of it—today, I need to focus. From my bag, I retrieve the slim notebook that the married lady gave me from her office, and I check the talking notes that I went over with the girls last night. I have written down the list of girls I have referred here. This includes Miho and Ara because they made appointments earlier this week too so that they could come drop my name and bolster my chances. Ara in particular was very intrigued by all her options after her consultation but said she might start with something small, perhaps just a filler shot for her nose.
My phone buzzes. It’s the manager oppa again.
My friend is opening a nap café in Gangnam Station. Do you want to go check it out with me when you’re done?
A few seconds later it buzzes again.
Just realized that might sound creepy—just to say hi to my friend I mean, not to actually sleep there! And they have only twin beds, I think! No co-sleeping allowed!
I laugh because he is such an innocent still, somehow, but then I hear one of the assistants call my name. Fumbling with my phone, I stand up quickly and follow her into the consultation room—one that I have been in many times. Turning my phone to silent, I quickly send a thumbs-up emoji to the manager oppa and check my reflection on my phone camera before straightening my posture.
“Dr. Shim will be in shortly,” she says in a singsong voice and steps out, closing the door behind her.
I know I will not get this job—nothing in this life is this easy. But as long as I am trying, doesn’t that mean something? I think of the fortune-teller, and the girls and the notes from their online interview research that they pored over with me yesterday. I think of my mother, and how I would be able to have her actually see where I work, because it would be a real place, and how happy it would make her.
And for some reason, the manager oppa’s face also swims into my mind before I quickly banish it. I skim my notes again and my leg shakes even harder.
A few long minutes later, I hear Dr. Shim’s voice and heavy footsteps in the hallway. The door handle turns as if in slow motion as he walks in.
Facing him, I smile as widely as my banging heart will allow.
* * *
—
ON MY WAY home later that night, I pick up Ara and Sujin from SeverLand, the new esports entertainment park from Berserk Games, Bruce’s Internet game company. To be honest, the only reason I bother to stop by is to buy the rum drink they sell at the fantasy café there. Bruce used to bring me some when he found out I liked rum. They sell it in containers that look like dragons’ eggs. In the café, I stare at the rows of glowing eggs and decide not to buy any after all.
I find the two of them gaming furiously in a corner of the PC bang and Sujin gestures that they will get off in ten more minutes. Ara does not even look up. I take in the sea of intense, focused faces, all of whom are putting money into Bruce’s pocket every minute they spend at their game pods, and take to wandering around the labyrinthine park as I wait for them, bemused. It’s a strange place that manages to be both childlike and violent, with cryptlike doors, intricate murals of battle scenes, and stained-glass windows depicting pixies and dragons and warrior women with ludicrous breasts. I think about how much money each intricate detail must have cost. I remember Bruce brought an artist to Ajax once to discuss which scenes he wanted depicted in the park. The artist didn’t say much, just drank a great deal and grunted with his eyes half-closed to everything Bruce said.
The manager oppa told me today that Bruce has been back to Ajax a few times. Everyone is under strict instructions to never let him see me.
* * *
—
SUJIN AND I have to help carry posters of scenes from the game home because Ara went crazy at the gift shop. She has been redecorating her room. “She ripped up all the Taein photos,” Sujin whispered to me when I was gasping over the merch prices. I had to persuade Ara not to buy a full cosplay costume of a water pixie from the game.
The air is thick tonight and I wonder if there has been talk of rain. The girls want to hear details about the interview but there isn’t much to tell. Dr. Shim’s face was impassive as usual and I told them it had been just for practice and they said they would let me know. I do not want them to see that I care so much.
When we reach the office-tel, the married lady Wonna is sitting on the front steps, her hands resting on her stomach.
I don’t know if I should tell her how frightening she looks, sitting there on the steps in the shadows like some unearthly wraith, staring out at the street with dull eyes. But I needn’t worry—people walk on by, oblivious in their gaiety. Saturday nights are always busy on our street—all the bars are ablaze with light and people are euphorically drunk as they fight over what to do next.
“I was wondering when you would be getting home—I saw that your lights were off and I couldn’t sleep,” she calls out when she sees us, her face suddenly flaring with warmth. Ara runs up and sits down next to her and starts showing her the posters that she just bought. The married lady is nice enough to act interested, and Sujin joins in, explaining each of the characters.
Sitting down on the cool steps next to Sujin, I bow and say hello and the lady does the same to me. Ara has been keeping us informed of all the latest developments about the married lady and her baby, even though I am not all that interested, to be honest. Apparently, the lady was in a frenzy, decorating the house. Babies these days have the craziest stuff, Ara had texted us from a baby fair last weekend because the lady had asked if she could accompany her. Ara sent photos of pastel bumper beds with tents, air purifiers for strollers, and UV sterilizing machines shaped like doll ovens.
“I forgot, Miho said that your parents asked her to hold some packages for you? They came by earlier and knocked on her door when they found you weren’t home,” says Sujin. “She didn’t know your number, so she asked us to tell you.”
The lady is silent. Then she sighs and says she was actually home, but she didn’t want to speak to them, so she was hiding in her bathroom.
“They are trying hard already with this one, since they messed up so much with me,” she says dryly.
I say that she looks like she turned out pretty good—doesn’t she have a real job, and isn’t she legally married and everything?—but she just smiles and asks me for some food delivery recommendations. “The baby always demands fried chicken at 1 A.M.” she says, her hand on her bump.
“You know, fried chicken sounds really good right now,” I say, and Ara claps her hands like a child.
“Would you like to come over to my place and we can order then?” the lady asks a bit nervously. “I have been meaning to ask you girls over for a while. You can have all my husband’s whiskey that he left here. He will not be needing it anymore.”
She says the last part with a small toss of her head. Ara nods and I say yes and Sujin says she will order and text Miho too.
“Oh,” the lady says suddenly with a sharp intake of breath, putting her hands on her bump.
“Are you all right?” Sujin asks in alarm.
She stays still as if she is listening for something, then breathes deeply. “I’m okay. I thought it was pain, but I think it’s gone.”
I look across at her from where I am sitting. She looks forlorn but not despairing, and it is astonishing how calm she can be.
Ara moves so that she is sitting behind her and takes the lady’s hair in her hands. She starts combing her fingers through it expertly. The lady lets out a sigh—a tremulous release of a long day—which makes me feel lighter too.
“Do you…do you want to see a photo of my baby?” she asks in a shy voice. Sujin clamors yes and even I nod. The lady reaches into her jacket pocket and takes out a thin printout of a 3D ultrasound that is curling around the edges. It shows a tiny, opalescent face with closed eyelids and a miniature fist clenched near its mouth.
“Wow,” breathes Sujin reverently, and we all gaze at the face.
“I haven’t shown it to anyone,” the lady says. “I haven’t talked about the baby to anyone, really. So I need to practice.” She tilts her head to consider this thought.
For a fleeting moment, as Sujin passes me the photograph and I hold this flimsy, curling image in my hands, I understand what it would be like to think only about tomorrow, instead of just today.
We sit in silence for a while, still staring at this photograph of new life, and then, in the distance, we see Miho walking up the street toward us. She is swaying a bit, wearing heels and a dress, for once, her new short hair resplendent under the light of the streetlamps, and I see men turning around as she passes them, although she does not register their gazes at all. Instead, she is looking abstractly toward us, probably thinking of floating frogs or a bed of snakes or something equally grotesque, I’m sure.
When she reaches our steps, she looks up and smiles ruefully. She does not express any surprise that we are out sitting on the steps like characters in some musical on Daehakro.
“Hey,” says Sujin. “I texted you. What have you been up to, dressed like that?” Sujin indicates Miho’s dress, a wispy cream dress with embroidered bell sleeves, which I recognize as the same one Shin Yeonhee wore to her film premiere last week.
“I’m a woman of mystery,” says Miho, smiling impishly, and I remember what Sujin said about not having to worry about her. Miho walks up slowly, gives a familiar nod to Wonna, and then sits on the other side of me. She exhales, and I put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m hungry,” she says, and I roll my eyes at her, the way I always do.
A fat drop of rain falls, and in alarm, I cup my hand over the photograph before handing it hastily back to the lady. Sujin’s phone starts ringing,
and when she answers, it’s the delivery man who cannot find our office-tel and is asking for directions. The raindrops keep falling, more thickly now. So we all stand up to make our way upstairs together, as the sky starts crackling, taking aim at each of us and the drunk men stumbling by.
For my mother, who taught me how to hold on to a dream
Acknowledgments
My eternal gratitude to my brilliant agent, Theresa Park, and her formidable team at Park & Fine—Alex Greene, Abigail Koons, Ema Barnes, Marie Michels, Andrea Mai, and Emily Sweet. I am the fortunate recipient of their exceptional insights and efforts. As I tell her every time I see her, Theresa, thank you for changing my life.
I am completely indebted to my editor, Jennifer Hershey, for her patience, guidance, and vision. She made my book so much better with every round of edits, and somehow made it a soothing and pleasurable experience. To Kara Welsh, Kim Hovey, Quinne Rogers, Taylor Noel, Jennifer Garza, Melissa Sanford, Maya Franson, Erin Kane, and everyone at Ballantine and Penguin Random House who worked on this book, and to my UK editor, Isabel Wall at Viking, thank you for making my first publishing experience more wonderful than it ever was in my dreams.
This all began as a story in Binnie Kirshenbaum’s workshop at the Writing Division at Columbia University. Her thoughtful reading and encouragement sparked the aspiration to continue this as a novel. To all the teachers I had along the way, thank you for recommending the books that you did, and for making me ponder time and story and suspension of disbelief: Catherine Tudish, Cleopatra Mathis, Heidi Julavits, Rebecca Curtis, Julie Orringer, and Jonathan Dee. Special thanks to Ed Park for wisdom, introductions, and spirited discussion of all things Korean and Korean-American.
While writing about these young women, I drew upon many topics that I worked on as the Seoul editor for CNNGo and later CNN Travel. My bosses, Andrew Demaria and Chuck Thompson, gave me a dream job and relentlessly whipped my writing and editing into shape every day. Thank you for the priceless training.
