Tweezers

            In the Israeli Superpharm, I stare at the back wall, five rows, a zigzag of self-care products—

            travel pouches

                                                                        nail files

                                    make-up brushes

eyelash curlers

                                                                                                                        facial sponges—

visible in their pink plastic packaging with BEAUTY ACCESSORIES written in bold, vertical, Roman letters at the bottom of each, the item’s name also printed in Hebrew. I scan for tweezers. My teenage daughter, a soldier now, has made her latest request of me, but I have no idea what the word is in this right-to-left alphabet. My fifty-one-year-old eyebrows have always needed plumping, not plucking. “Slicha,” I stop a young woman pushing a stroller and half explain, half pantomime, pointing to eyes with a cutting motion. She nods: “Pintzetta.” I notice her shaped, black brows. Makes sense: to pinch. I thank her, wondering if I’m shrewd enough to navigate the language of Girl World and how many more microcosms, subcultures, and underworlds await me.

---

---