asnion cure-all

Last fall during Fashion Week, three different friends told me that they'd recendy been to visit a shaman. "Like, a feather-waving, rattle-shaking kind of shaman?" I asked.
Yes, a feather-waving, rattle-shaking kind of shaman. A soul healer.
"It was amazing," said Christina,* gripping my arm over drinks at the Lion.
"Incredible," said Sophie* a fashion publicist.
These are New Yorkers, mind you. Chic New Yorkers in platform leopard Yves Saint Laurent stilettos and fur collars, with their lips painted into lovely little hearts. Talking about shamans. And soul healing.
At home, I asked my own soul how it was doing. After a long silence, it responded that it felt like it had been stuck in die dryer on high heat—for, like, a year. I called my friend Anna* "So, what exacdy do these shamans ddf I asked.
"You're not really supposed to talk about it," she answered, texting me the number of her shaman, Elizabeth Clemants. "But if you go, make sure you ask for the bands of protection."
The bands of protection. The words alone made my beat-up soul give a parched little gasp. I called the shaman. "How soon can you see me?" I asked.
As it turned out, she was booked solid for three weeks. While I waited, I wondered: What, really, is a shaman, and why are all these fashionable New Yorkers suddenly so hot and bothered about them?