My Body in Nine Parts Read online

  MY BODY IN NINE PARTS

  2005

  raymond federman

  photographs by

  steve murez

  CONTENTS

  My Hair

  More About My Hair: Supplement #1

  My Nose

  In Defense of My Nose: Supplement #2

  My Toes

  My Voice

  My Sexual Organ

  My Broken Molar

  My Ears: Supplement #3

  My Eyes

  My Hands

  My Scars

  List of What I do to my Body Everyday

  About the Photographer

  About the Author

  What body drags me to its lazy end, What mind pulls it to this bony earth?

  After Paul Valéry

  Every man invents a story that one day he takes for the story of his life

  Every man invents a body that one day he takes for his own

  After Moinous

  MY HAIR

  I became conscious of my hair when I turned 13. Before that, it was my mother who took care of it, or else told me to comb my hair because it was always messy. I didn’t give a damn about my hair. It just bothered me, there, on top of my head.

  So it was my mother who cared for my hair. When I was a little boy she would wash it for me, comb it and part it to one side. The left side, I think. But I’m not sure anymore. I would have to look at an old childhood photo of me to determine which side my mother parted my hair. In any case, it was my mother who cared for my hair. She also searched in it for lice when I caught some from the other boys at school. She would snare them out with a special comb. A lice comb, with very short and tight teeth so the lice could be pulled out. Then she would crush them right on the comb with the nail of her thumb. We couldn’t afford to buy the expensive powder and cream you apply to your hair to kill lice. So my mother killed the lice herself. With her nails.

  Later, when my mother told me it was time to take care of my own hair because now I was a big boy, I would rarely bother to comb it myself.

  Except when my mother shouted at me, Comb your hair before going out. People are going to make fun of you with your hair all rumpled like that. I don’t know if those were the exact word she used. She would say that in French, of course, since we were in France when I had no interest in my hair. I suppose she said, Peigne tes cheveux ébourriffés, sinon les gens vont se moquer de toi. Or something like that.

  So before going out, I would put a lot of water on my hair, and I would plaster it down against my skull by smoothing it out with my hands, and without even looking in the mirror I tried to part the hair on one side. Sometimes on the left, sometimes on the right. It made no difference to me if my hair was parted on one side or the other. I had no sense of its relation with the rest of my face. My hair was something alien to me. But not my nose. I’ll tell you about my nose next time.

  Even worse, I had no idea what color my hair was. My school I.D. card said, brown hair. But whether my hair was brown, mauve, or yellow, it left me indifferent. As I told you already, my hair bothered me. It gave me the feeling that I was always wearing a hat. That’s how my hair felt on my head. Like a hat. And me I hate hats. I never wear a hat. The only time I did was when I was in the army. It was regulation. One of those ugly military kepis that never fits right on your head. Or a heavy helmet that’s always too tight, and mats down your hair.

  Before the age of 13, I didn’t know that hair can help to make you more handsome so that you can seduce the girls you desire. It’s when I became an orphan, at the age of 13, in fact, that I suddenly appreciated the hair on my head. This happened about the same time I was aggressed by puberty.

  Mother was no longer there to take care of my hair. At that time, the boys from rich bourgeois families that I saw in the streets of the fancy neighborhoods all wore their hair combed straight back without a part, high and fluffy on their heads, with a duck’s tail in the back.

  I didn’t know how to comb my hair like that, in the bourgeois style. In the Pompadour style. Me, I belonged to the proletarian class. Not because my father was a factory worker. A laborer. No, my father never worked. He was an artist. Un artiste-peintre. And like all artists, he was lazy. He was also a gambler, a womanizer, and a Communist. That’s what everybody said about him. So he was always broke. That’s why we were poor like proletarians. And that’s why we, the children, my two sisters and I, we kept saying to our mother, Maman j’ai faim. And Maman would tell us, with tears in her eyes, Tell that to your father.

  But that’s not what I wanted to tell. I wanted to tell you about my hair. And not about my miserable childhood.

  The rich boys my age all wore their hair puffed up high on their heads. Not like mine, flattened on the skull with water.

  Their hair was loose and shiny. Fluffy, and floating freely. You see what I mean? The Zazou style. Or Elvis style.

  So when I understood the importance of hair in human relations, I started washing my hair every day. My crop as the boys my age always referred to their hair in those days. Well, in French they would say, mes tiffs. They would admire and discuss each other’s tiffs.

  From that time on I spent hours taking care of my crop of hair. I shampooed it. Which is not the same as washing your hair. One washes one’s hair with any kind of common soap, whereas one shampoos one’s hair with special soft and even perfumed soap so that the hair becomes softer and shinier. After the shampoo, I would towel dry my hair carefully so that no trace of water would remain in it. Then I would rub brilliantine into it to make it shine more, and I would comb it carefully all back on my head, without a part, making sure the duck’s tail was perfectly centered behind my head by holding a little mirror in my hand in front of my face, and looking into it I would see the back of my head in the big mirror above the sink. This way I could inspect my duck tail.

  Until the age of 13, I had never seen the back of my head. If people found the back of my head ugly, I didn’t care. But from the day I saw the back of my head in the mirror, I became very conscious of it. And even today, when I feel someone staring at the back of my head, especially a woman, I panic.

  That’s why, when I comb my hair today, even though my hair has changed density and color, I always inspect the back of my head carefully. And each time, it reminds me of how Roquentin in Jean-Paul Sartre’s La Nausée also panicked when he felt another human being staring at the back of his head.

  Well, me too, I feel strange when someone looks at the back of my head. It feels as if I am being judged, and accused of something that I am responsible for.

  The great discovery I made when I started to take care of my own hair, is that it was not really brown, as it was stated on my school I.D. card, but black. My hair was black when I took charge. It is no longer black now, but believe me, it was black, and not a wishy washy brown.

  It’s possible that the heavy brilliantine that I smeared all over it might have made it look more black, but that’s how I saw my hair. Black. Deep dark black. But not curly.

  OK, I’ll skip all the different modes of coiffures I had since the age of 13. I’ll just tell you how, when I turned 40, there was a radical but fashionable change in the way my hair was combed, and consequently, how to visualize it.

  It all happened when I turned 40, and I was going through a crisis. I don’t think it was the middle-aged crisis. I was still in full control of my body and of my mind. My crisis was professional. What I was in the process of writing kept canceling itself as I was writing it. That made me sad, melancholic, even angry and paranoid. I was in a constant depression.

  When my wife asked what was wrong, I would tell her, the noodles. Yes, I was writing a novel which had a lot to do with noodles. She would
then laugh, and say, You’re starting to be a bore with your noodles. Stop making a face. Come, let’s go to the movies. That’ll relax you.

  But one day, when I was really deep into the depression, and I was even talking suicide, she said, You know it’s not your noodle novel that puts you in this mood, it’s your hair. Yes, your crop of hair is thinning. You’re losing your feathers Federman, and you won’t admit it. I know how much your hair means to you. Now it’s taking its revenge for having been neglected when you were a boy.

  She was right.

  If only I had known. I am sure all men lament the loss of their hair by the fact that they neglected it when they were young.

  And it is true that when I turned 40, I started noticing, if not every day, once in a while, especially after a shower, while combing my hair, that my forehead seemed to be getting wider, higher, and my hair seemed to be retreating towards the back of my head.

  The hair on the side of my head resisted. It was still thick there. But on top it was getting thinner, less dense, more transparent, even when I combed my hair very loosely and fluffy and high on top. I could see my skull through it when I looked in the mirror, especially in the evening when the light was turned on in the bathroom.

  So that day, the day I was so depressed, and saying that I was going to give up everything, even writing, Erica said, Take off your shirt and your pants, and sit on this chair. I’ll be right back.

  Astonished by this sudden command, in the middle of the day, I sat on the chair in my underwear, wondering what she was going to do to me. And here she comes, joyfully hopping back, still fully dressed, with a comb in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. And before I can even object or argue, she starts cutting. I give in.

  Why bother resisting? Depressed as I was, let her cut it all, let her shave my head if she wants to. Let my hair go to hell. Who cares.

  Okay, so not to keep you in suspense any longer. When Erica had finished clipping my hair on all sides, she said, Go look at yourself in the mirror.

  I go to the bathroom without much enthusiasm, and I look into the mirror. At first, I do not recognize myself. And suddenly I burst into laughter. Erica comes in. Well, what do you think? She has a lovely smile on her face. A reassuring smile.

  I look like Julius Caesar, I say. You gave me an imperial hair cut. I lean towards the mirror staring at myself. I burst into laughter again. I examine my new hair cut. From the front. From the side. In profile. With a little mirror in my hand looking at the back of the head in the big mirror over the sink. Not bad. Damn good. Makes me look younger. Don’t you think so? Bolder too. I mean more virile. I suddenly felt. I couldn’t stop laughing.

  And you know what? I have not stopped laughing since that day when Erica cut my hair Roman style, since the day she changed the direction of my hair forward. Now I could cover half my forehead with my hair, up to where it used to grow when I was younger.

  It’s also on that memorable day that I understood how I had to write the noodle novel. Straight forward in mad laughter, without worrying about what was left behind, simply projecting myself into the story without worrying about what would happen, or would not happen. That day I invented the leap-frog technique. Better known as Laughterature.

  Well, I’m not going to bother you now describing in detail how little by little my hair changed color, from black to grey to white. The reason was the noodle novel. What I was writing day after day continued to cancel itself as I progressed, or regressed, I should perhaps say. And this was certainly the cause of the discoloring of my hair.

  But at least now my hair no longer depresses me. I rather like it, even though there is less and less of it, and it’s more and more white.

  MORE ABOUT MY HAIR: SUPPLEMENT #1

  Today I saw my hair fall out. I saw it with my own eyes. I had just taken a shower. I was drying my hair with a towel. Gently rubbing my skull. Then leaning over the sink, I shook it well with my fingers to make it more loose, more supple, and that’s when I saw 4 hairs, yes 4, fall from my head one after another into the sink.

  I didn’t panic. I just told myself, now I have 4 hairs less on my head. Or should I have said I have 4 less hairs.

  I reflected. If I were to calculate how many hairs I have on my head right now, and if I were to divide that number by the number of showers I take each year, on the basis of these 4 fallen hairs, could I determine when I will be totally bald?

  Of course, one would have to know when this loss of hair first occurred.

  Today is May 15, 2003. My birthday. And it is today that, for the first time, I noticed this loss of 4 hairs after my shower.

  Normally, I take a shower every day, without fail. Unless, of course, something unexpected prevents it. A water shortage. A broken pipe. Or just plain laziness. At most I may miss half a dozen daily showers a year.

  In the summer, when it’s really hot, I often take 2 or 3 showers a day. And sometimes during the night I take an extra quick shower to wash away the nocturnal sweat.

  A few years ago, when I traveled in Africa, near the Equator, in the middle of the summer, it was so hot and humid, I had to shower at least 6 or 7 times a day.

  [For details about my travels in Africa see Federman From A to X-X-X-X.]

  To these regular showers one must add the necessary cooling showers one takes in the course of a year after an active aventure jouissive, to put it in the Gallic way.

  So, let us calculate. 365 daily showers each year. 366 if it’s a leap year. To this I must add approximately 150 supplementary showers, to round it off, give or take a few more or a few less here and there, which gives us a grand total of 515 showers per year.

  515 showers in a year. Sounds reasonable.

  Assuming I lose 4 hairs after each shower, I can now determine how many hairs have left my head in one year. All I have to do is multiply the 4 falling hairs by the number of showers …

  Oh, what a scary thought! Suppose it’s more than 4 hairs each time? Suppose the number of falling hairs is irregular. More one day, less the next.

  No, let’s not panic, let us remain calm, and accept the 4 hairs per shower as a constant.

  4 hairs less here, 4 hairs more there will not make much difference in calculating the future state of my baldness.

  So if I multiply these 4 hairs by the number of showers taken during the year we arrive at …

  One moment, let me get my little calculator.

  515 × 4 = 2060.

  How frightening. Each year I lose 2060 hairs. 2064, when it’s a leap year.

  As I noted above in MY HAIR, I felt the beginning of this loss of hair when I turned 40, which caused me a great depression. I first felt [notice, I am not saying saw, but felt] this vexing loss of hair [yes, vexing is a better term than embarrassing] while combing my hair after a shower. It was on May 15, 1968. I remember the exact feeling. On my birthday.

  Erica and I had gone out to play tennis, doubles with friends. We were both good tennis players back then, and still are, though not as agile. Now we prefer golf.

  After the tennis match I took a shower before getting dressed to go out for a fancy gourmet dinner to celebrate my birthday and Erica’s beauty. Wow was she gorgeous then. And still is. But there was something special, something irresistible about the combination of blue eyes and black hair, more striking than the blue eyes and blond hair she now sports. Although that combination is also irresistible. But I am digressing.

  While combing my hair after the shower, I felt that it was not as dense, not as thick as before. Hard to determine when before was, I mean when I did not feel that my hair was thinner, but that day, on my birthday, after tennis, I did feel that perhaps I was starting to lose hair.

  I did not see any hair fall that day, nor the following days, nor the following months, nor the following years. It was not until today, May 15, 2003, on my birthday again, 35 years later, that I first witnessed 4 hairs fall from my head.

  I wish I had taken a picture of those 4 miserable hairs
mocking me in the sink. Or even preserved them for future reference.

  The coincidence of these two birthdays, 35 years apart – the first when I became aware that my hair was getting thinner, the second when I witnessed for the first time hairs falling from my head – may be an important factor in determining the exact date of my future baldness. Or in the words of the prophet: Tui vestri capilli sunt numerati.

  I wasn’t dejected today when I saw these 4 hairs fall. I felt amused. But then I remembered how sad, how panicky I was when I first noticed that my hair was getting thinner on May 15, 1968, when I turned 40, thirty-five years ago.

  Or perhaps it was not on my birthday, but the day after when I became conscious of my hair getting thinner. Whatever. The same day or the day after doesn’t make much difference in how I felt.

  It was late that evening, after a turbulent day in the streets of Paris … yes the day after my birthday, now I remember. That day I was in front of the Sorbonne shouting slogans with the students against the cops, against the bourgeois, against la société mercantile, against the crooked politicians. Remember, May ‘68 at the Sorbonne. I was there, yes I was there participating in the rebellion.

  Late that night, even though still exhilarated by the excitement of the demonstration and the violence that it incited, feeling somewhat out of place, and out of time among the kids, as we older intellectuals called them, I sensed a little depression coming on when back in our apartment, rue Jacob, I looked at myself in the mirror, and while passing my fingers through my hair, it suddenly hit me, and I screamed: Féderman, tu te déplumes!

  [Erica and I were spending the year in France, on a generous Guggenheim Fellowship, but that’s another story.]

  Already asleep when I came in, Erica woke up when she heard me scream, and exclaimed, Oh! it’s you? How was the revolution? Did you get hit on the head by the cops’ convulsive clubs?