Dating a woman who wears a wig

Posted by / 12-Oct-2020 06:42

Dating a woman who wears a wig

Starting today, then, we are asking people who'd like to post comments on the site to pay a nominal fee—less a paywall than a gesture of your own commitment to the cause of great conversation. Readers can still interact with us free of charge via Facebook, Twitter, and our other social media channels, or write to us at [email protected] proceeds go to helping us bring you the ambitious journalism that brought you here in the first place. Each week, we’ll select the best letters and publish them in a new letters to the editor feature on the Scroll.No matter what the setting, the routine is the same. No Sunflower Blondes or Leather Blacks; sheitel color is classified by number—ranging from 1 for the darkest shades to 33 for the hardest to find color, red. From the stock room, the seller/stylist brings out “something,” which means a mop of glossy strands, uncut and unstyled. All European,” she purrs, her voice taking on the tones a Tiffany employee might use when describing a five-carat emerald. She just scurries back to the stockroom to find another model while I slink out the door so I can run home to gulp down some Advil to fend off the migraine that is coming on.“Human” means the wig has been fashioned from the ponytail of somebody’s daughter or sister or mother. Like an actor in a bad play, I repeat this scene endlessly—in downtown Geula, where the sheitel shops outnumber the pizza parlors, and in my Orthodox suburb, where sheitel merchants hold one-night-only sales that I religiously attend. Maybe I should just quit this search but call me neurotic—I still want a sheitel.To them, sheitel wearing feels as natural as having a dozen kids; where I grew up, on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, sheitels were as rare as hijabs.In my growing-up years during the 1960s and ‘70s, Orthodox women covered their hair only for synagogue, when they donned hats worthy of a royal garden party.This was the 1990s, and Princess Di came to my rescue by returning hats to fashion. On a visit to the United States, my pal Rivi booked me into her own sheitelmacher, Chani, the top stylist at the leading salon, in the sheitel capital of the world: Boro Park, Brooklyn.

The one I’ve been wearing for the past four years is part of the problem: Not only is the cut dated, the hair has gotten so stiff and dry that it could probably be mowed into toothbrush bristles. I like looking Orthodox; if I were a man, I’d probably sport a full beard, peyes, and a black hat.

I felt like the Matriarch Rebekah, when Esau and Jacob were pummeling each other in her belly.

The headscarf wearers I met in Israel seemed to soar above this conflict.

“European,” in the unabashedly racist world of sheitels, is the best hair, followed by Russian, Brazilian and, at the very bottom, Chinese, which is too straight and requires extensive chemical treatments to achieve the desired soft waves. That is because in the Haredi world in which I live, a sheitel is like high-heeled shoes: It is a sign that I’m ready to venture out into the world beyond the supermarket.

Yet even after two decades of wearing them, sheitels bother me.

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It was during my first solo trip to Israel that the idea of head covering as a regular routine first occurred to me.

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