Dear Diary:
A few days after moving to Brooklyn, I receive a rather shocking
bobbed haircut chopped several inches above my chin. I decide the only
hope for this new cut is to cover it up, so I set off to an observant
Jewish neighborhood riddled with wig shops.
I don’t remember the exact terms of the Jewish law surrounding wigs. I
just notice that every Orthodox woman of a certain age has that
perfectly coiffed “wiggy” look: stiff, heavy and perfect.
I arrive at a small, busy wig shop off 13th Avenue. The store is
studded with blank white heads wigged in all the latest Eastern European
styles. Delighted, I run my fingers through a silky russet one. “I
love this,” I gush.
The store owner eyes me suspiciously, “You look very young,” she says. “Is this your first wig?”
“Oh yeah, um, I guess I’m a … wig virgin?” I say, dumbly.
“It’s her first wig!” the store owner shrieks to the rest of the store.
Soon, clusters of women circle around me. “Mazel tov!” “Baruch hashem!” “You must be so excited!” “Who is the lucky man?”
I then remember that Orthodox Jewish women don’t begin donning wigs until after they get hitched.
Embarrassed, I confess that I am not engaged, then run out of the
store before any of the women have the chance to tell me they can change
that.
2 comments:
That is really funny. I read bad4shidduchim, and finally hopped over to your blog. Very fun I grew up in the Hungarian world where you had to be dressed to the T, and while i definitely pay more attention to my appearance than I used to, I am very grateful not to have to put up with that tremendous pressure to dress perfectly! Which I have neither the money nor the time to do.
Ah, a fellow Hungarian!
Are you saying that now that you are married, you don't have pressure to dress up? Last I checked, Hungarian arms have a very long reach. It is quite clear who my Babi sits up straight for (hint: lipstick was applied that morning).
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