The Makedown

by Gitty Daneshvari

  Wait. I just had a true eureka moment. I am so impressed with myself that I have half a mind to share my brilliant idea with Ben. A few drops of Nair in Ben’s moderately priced shampoo will subtly thin his full-bodied mane. My goal is to dull the locks while lightly weeding out some follicles. However cruel it may sound, it could do wonders for Ben’s confidence to find a few extra hairs in his hand when shampooing.

  My mixing complete, I sniff the bottle. A few drops of Nair smell surprisingly strong. My eyes tear up, and not just from the smell. Oh, the guilt. What have I done? Is Nair over the line? I didn’t put that much in the shampoo. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was no effect at all. After all, Ben doesn’t shampoo his hair for ten minutes, the amount of time needed to see serious results. And if by some chance Ben experiences a little thinning, it will be good for him. He should weather a crisis of confidence about something silly and superficial. It’s part of the human condition, and he has missed it. This is an anthropological mission, right? I decide to text Janice, ask her opinion on the matter.

  “Is the loss of hair important to a man’s character?”

  She wisely texts back, “Fuck off, it’s 2:00 a.m.”

  By the time I leave the bathroom, Ben has fallen asleep with the television on and a half-eaten Nature’s Way on his chest. I switch off the television and climb into bed next to Ben. After removing the Nature’s Way bar from his chest hair as best I can, I rest my head on the pillow. I’m exhausted, yet I can’t sleep. I am perplexed by what I have done, yet simultaneously scared I haven’t done enough. I could still easily lose him. More than anything, I want The Makedown complete so I can erase it from my memory. A slightly downgraded Ben will be a more appropriate boyfriend for me— attractive but not gorgeous. I can handle attractive; it’s gorgeous that kills me.

  I still can’t sleep. Should I throw away the shampoo? Is it too much? No, this is the best thing for us as a couple. I am bringing us closer together. We will be more in harmony, right?

  I yank the sheet off me, feeling claustrophobic from its touch. I need to do this to stay with Ben, but it’s undoubtedly wrong to deceive the man I love. Frustrated, I head for my old stomping grounds, the kitchen. I wrench open the stainless steel refrigerator, allowing the cold air to calm my nerves. If I were still the old me, I would devour the vanilla fudge ice cream until suitably numb. For a few seconds, I flirt with a relapse before remembering that I must remain strong. I am a soldier on a mission, and as such, I must remain focused on the task at hand— Ben.

  By the soft light of the fridge, I undress. Standing naked in my kitchen, I check my gear: spoon (check), ice cream (check), naked body (check). It is now or never. I cross the threshold of the bedroom with the concentration of a front-line commando. I lay the spoon and perspiring ice cream on the nightstand before lifting the sheet slowly off Ben’s naked body. The humility-challenged Ben insists on sleeping in the nude. I stand above him, mindlessly debating the statistical likelihood of a fire hitting the building while both of us are naked. His face distracts me. It’s slightly rounder than usual, but still devastatingly handsome. I am ready to seduce him, then stuff him full of ice cream. Like a frightened private on the eve of my first mission, I shut my eyes and will myself to jump. I land on top of Ben’s naked body.

  “Ahhh!!!!!!” Ben wails in pain.

  I didn’t mean to land with such force, but the whole military theme riled me up.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” Ben screams.

  Man down, abort operation.

  “What’s happening?” I scream back, good soldier that I am.

  The lights flick on. A livid Ben stares at me. The clock ticks. The pressure mounts. He wants an answer. Is there an appropriate answer? I dig deep into my People magazine vault. Since moving in with Ben, I have embraced the celeb rags in the bathroom, often rereading issues while handling location-appropriate business.

  “Why are you yelling at me?”

  “You jumped on my dick at 2:30 in the morning! Is this some kind of joke? Does this amuse you?” Ben asks angrily.

  It’s a fair assumption, based on his pained expression, that I did serious damage to his equipment.

  “I don’t know; the last thing I remember is taking an Ambien.”

  Is he going to buy this?

  “You don’t remember anything else?”

  “Nothing. Although I do remember reading somewhere that women were waking up in the middle of the night and eating without any recollection after taking Ambien.”

  “But you’re not eating anything.”

  “Well, I’m assuming that ice cream isn’t yours,” I say, pointing to the pint on the nightstand.

  To my great relief, he laughs.

  “You’re naked with a pint of ice cream.”

  “It appears that way. I’m sorry if I hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “Do you want some ice cream?”

  “Sure.”

  The next morning, I wake to the sound of both the shower running and the phone ringing. Annoyed, I pull the pillow over my head and wait for voicemail to pick up. After five seconds of silence, the ringing begins again. It continues until the voicemail picks up. Two seconds of silence follows before the phone starts ringing again. Gritting my teeth in frustration, I emerge from beneath my pillow and pick up the phone.

  Before I can even say hello, I hear it. It’s an irritating but familiar sound. It is my overweight brother smothering the receiver, as he has done since he was a child.

  “Barney?”

  “I’ve been made aware of some mighty disturbing information.”

  “What?”

  “You banned Mother and me from the state of New York.”

  “I didn’t ban you, just Mother, although please don’t come. This isn’t a good time.”

  “Anna, we miss you.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “How can you say that after all the postcards we’ve written?”

  “What postcards?”

  “Those cheap sons of—”

  “Barney?” I interrupt.

  “I thought if I mailed them without a stamp, they would have to send them to you to get the postage, since there’s no return address.”

  “What the fuck happened to my hair?” Ben screams from the bathroom.

  Shit.

  “Barney, I have to go,” I say, slamming the phone on the receiver.

  Ben stands teary-eyed in front of the bathroom mirror. There are five clearly visible hairless patches on his head. It’s undeniable, yet I try to deny it.

  “What?” I ask stupidly.

  “Do you not see this huge bald patch on my head?” Ben asks with intense frustration. Evidently, he hasn’t noticed the other four.

  Hello Fatty,

  You are definitely going to hell.

  —Anna

  “Oh that,” I say nonchalantly.

  “Yes, ‘oh that.’ What is it?” Ben screams hysterically.

  I never thought Ben could remind me of Mother, but he does now. Ben’s dramatic expression in the mirror along with an exaggerated sense of disaster reeks of Mother.

  “Looks like run-of-the-mill male-pattern baldness,” I explain in a soothing tone.

  “It appeared overnight. Baldness doesn’t appear overnight, Anna!”

  “Calm down. Maybe it’s an allergic reaction. Now that I look a little closer, you seem to have some other spots around your head.”

  “What? Oh God, no!”

  “Don’t worry, no one will notice.”

  “Anna, my head is half bald! My life is over. Do you hear me? Over! I’m not going to work.”

  “Babe, I’m sure whatever it is will go away, and your hair will grow back.”

  “Or it will continue and I will be completely bald by the weekend! I’m losing it. God, why me? How can you do this to me?” Ben wails while looking at the ceiling.

  “Ben, you need to calm down. It’s hair. It will grow bac
k.”

  “What if it doesn’t? I’ll be . . . ugly! Women hate bald men. They make fun of them, they call them bowling balls.” Ben theatrically stutters as if he’s lost his penis or some other close relative.

  “Trust me, it will take a lot more than a few bald patches to make you ugly.”

  “That’s what I used to think, but obviously I was wrong.”

  “Ben, you’re still gorgeous. Look at that face.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m making a doctor’s appointment immediately. Maybe he can give me Rogaine or something.”

  “If that’s what you need to do.”

  “Are you sure I’m not ugly?”

  “I promise.”

  “Cancel dinner with Janice and Gary.”

  “What? Over a little hair? You can wear a hat.”

  “Anna, look at me. I am in no condition to be in public. I’m ordering a pizza and watching the Law & Order marathon.”

  “Whatever you say,” I say sweetly as a pang of guilt stabs at my stomach. “You know, Ben, I’m sure it will grow back.”

  “I hope so. Thank God I’m growing the beard. It will be a good distraction.”

  While Ben is at Dr. Hardin’s office on Amsterdam and Broadway, I decide to implement the flannel. Ben has gained twenty pounds, started growing a beard, and developed bald patches, and soon he will be dressed in flannel. I think that is more than enough to keep the überelite women away from him. The beard will take a couple weeks to hit its stride, but if I get him to wear flannel by that time, mission accomplished.

  Façonnable is appropriately located on Fifth Avenue. At $125 per flannel shirt, I can’t help but think that Kurt Cobain is rolling over in his grave. Post-Prada, I am markedly more comfortable in upper-class stores. Not that it matters, since this is the last step. As soon as I find a way to convince Ben to wear flannel, I am free to enjoy Ben in his less-than-perfect form.

  As I turn the doorknob to the apartment, I hear the television blasting, signaling Ben’s presence.

  “Hey babe, how was the doctor?” I call out, dropping my bags on the floor. Ben stands naked in front of me with a glass of wine in his left hand.

  “What happened? Why are you naked?”

  “I’m trying to relax. Being naked relaxes me.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “He thinks it could be an allergic reaction or stress-induced hair loss.”

  “Really?”

  “He gave me this special shampoo to use and told me to take it easy and stay as calm as possible.”

  “I knew you were fine,” I beam reassuringly at him.

  “I would hardly call me fine, Anna. I have mange,” Ben says like a bitchy transvestite.

  “I’m sorry; I got you something to cheer you up.”

  “A toupee?”

  “Ha ha. I bought you these shirts. Aren’t they great?” I say, pulling out red, green, and blue flannel shirts. His already dour face contorts painfully, expressing his extreme dislike of my clothing selection.

  “Babe, those are awful,” Ben declares with a scowl.

  “Honey, you wear them with a black suit. I saw it in . . . Vogue, yes, Italian Vogue. It’s sexy. Very cutting-edge.”

  “Anna, this isn’t my look. Plus, with the bald patches, I don’t want to draw any additional attention to myself.”

  “Will you at least try them on?”

  He takes the green shirt reluctantly. “Oh, it’s Façonnable.”

  Label whore. As Ben buttons the front of his shirt, his face continues to twist miserably as if biting into something horribly acidic.

  “No. No way, I would never wear this.”

  “Well, not without any pants on, of course not.”

  “Babe, no.”

  “Ben, I spent a lot of money one these shirts. Will you at least try it on with a black suit? The sales clerk said it’s all the rage in Italy, France . . . and Albania, which are big fashion places. Please try it with a suit— for me.”

  “Fine, but this isn’t good for my stress level, Anna,” Ben says, turning toward the bedroom. He returns, tucking the shirt into his now-tight “ 34-inch” black slacks.

  He looks like Paul Bunyan at a funeral.

  “You look hot,” I say with a straight face.

  “Are you serious? This looks like shit!”

  “I think you look sexy. You’re kind of turning me on.”

  “You’re sick.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  “There’s something very masculine and . . . dangerous about you in that top.”

  “Are you serious?” The compliment penetrates his wounded ego.

  “Uh-huh. You seem strong and virile, like you could knock someone out for looking at me the wrong way.”

  “Really?”

  “Ohhh,” I shiver orgasmically, “I don’t want you to wear these out of the house. It’s only for me.”

  Ben smiles lasciviously. I haven’t seen him this happy since before I destroyed his hair, which technically was only last night. However, this morning was exceptionally stressful. Without another word, I get on my knees and perform what should really be called man’s best friend. There is no better way to convey attraction and sex appeal than by giving your boyfriend an impromptu blow job in the kitchen.

  “I think you’re right,” Ben says as I lift myself from the floor. “This suits me.”

  Before I can respond, the doorbell rings.

  “Babe, that’s the pizza. Can you get it?” Ben asks, running off to clean up. I open the door with a sense of satisfaction; mission accomplished.

  “You order two double-cheese pizzas, breadsticks, ranch dressing, and a liter of Pepsi?”

  “No, we ordered one pizza.”

  “This Ben Reynolds’s place?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Then you ordered this.”

  “No, I’m sorry. There must be some mistake. Ben?”

  “Yeah?” he calls from the bathroom.

  “Did you order two pizzas and breadsticks?”

  “What?” he yelps, running into the living room. “Did they forget the ranch dressing and Pepsi?”

  “No, no they didn’t. Never mind.”

  “Thank goodness. The doctor says I need to relax, and there’s nothing more relaxing than this.”

  “Absolutely.”

  After one slice of pizza and half a breadstick, I pass out without even brushing my teeth. A few hours later, I roll over and find the bed empty. The clock reads 4:30 a.m. Where is Ben? I hear rustling in the kitchen. I tiptoe down the hall only to discover a naked Ben eating cold pizza from the fridge. I creep back to the bedroom in shock. The bald patches unraveled him more than I thought. Twenty minutes later, he crawls into bed reeking of cheese and ranch dressing.

  Even after the 4:30 snack, Ben is up at 7:00 sharp, buttoning the Façonnable red plaid shirt. I am surprised how quickly he has taken to it.

  “Thanks for the shirts. I love them.”

  “Oh, good. You’re feeling better about your hair today?”

  “I think the flannel diverts attention from the patches.”

  “Okay,” I say quietly. I am suddenly filled with remorse over making him go to work looking like a crazed lumberjack. Ben doesn’t notice my consternation as he heads into the kitchen, returning seconds later with both a piece of pizza and a Nature’s Way for the road.

  “Babe? Can you set the TiVo for Law & Order? I didn’t get a chance to last night.”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and some more Nature’s Ways would be great. They give me that kick I need in the morning.”

  I smile guiltily, wondering what I have started.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Junk food is addictive. It is a drug, like cocaine, heroin, or crack; the junk food junkie requires an ever higher caloric intake to reach satisfaction. It’s been a mere eight weeks, and Ben has devolved into an addict, ordering such fattening specialties as egg
plant parmigiana, fettuccine Alfredo, vegetable tempura, french fries, and onion rings. He is on a first-name basis with most of the deliverymen in a ten-block radius, and our trash compacter looks like the Dumpster behind the food court, littered with wrappers and oily napkins.

  While I was pleased with the initial weight gain, I am now concerned that Ben is on the fast track to obesity. It’s time to put on the brakes.

  “Babe, did you get more Nature’s Way bars?”

  “Yeah, I did. Here you go,” I say as I toss him one from the shopping bag.

  “What the hell is this?” Ben screams, staring at the real Nature’s Way bar, a mass of oats stuck together with some honey.

  “I heard they were changing their recipe. This must be the new bar,” I say, thinking Ben must be getting wise to my dreadful lies.

  “They always discontinue my favorite stuff,” Ben whines as if he’s a moody teenager. “I guess I’ll have Doritos for dessert then.”

  Doritos for dessert?

  “I can cut you up an apple or nectarine for dessert.”

  “No, I don’t want that,” he insists, pouting unattractively.

  There has been a strange and unexpected shift within Ben the last few weeks. I would best describe it as an emotional regression. He’s become withdrawn and temperamental, like a hormonally challenged eighth-grader, and a few pimples have even broken through under his messy beard. As he shoves Doritos into his mouth by the handful, I gasp in sudden realization: Ben is me, circa junior high.

  I have gone too far. I must figure out how to undo the damage I have done.

  After barely sleeping, I awake at 6:30 on Saturday morning, prepared to meet Janice at the kitchen to prep for a Greek party. I run from the subway station to the kitchen, busting through the door like a woman possessed.