Tali Farkash
Photo: Gabi Menashe
My bewigged life
A haredi journalist explains what it’s like to cover her hair with a so-called custom wig
“Close Encounters of the Third Kind” – that’s what I like to call secular-haredi discussions. I meet all kinds of people on a regular basis, but as far as I’m concerned, secular-haredi dialogues are about as strange as they get.
Because when it comes down to it, we can be neighbors; we can drive on the same streets; and we can listen to the same newscasts. But - no matter what - the culture divide continues to loom mightily.
Whenever I meet secular Israelis, I know I must brace myself for the inevitable Q&A session. Actually, since I’m a haredi woman, the queries generally boil down to one specific topic.
With many men, it arises towards the beginning of the conversation, right after I avoid shaking their hands. This reflects the typical male “let’s get it over with” approach.
When it comes to women, however, they first check out my clothes. Occasionally, I’ll hear them heave a sigh of relief – when they realize that my top came from the same store as their pants.
Usually, these encounters are in a professional capacity. My secular colleagues stand there, ostensibly talking business, but their curious eyes predictably drift upwards towards the top of my head. I see them trying to figure it all out.
Sometimes, I take malicious pleasure in waiting for them to make the first move, when I know quite well that one sentence from me will be sufficient to put them out of their misery.
The more daring ones will eventually bite the bullet and ask the question that’s been on the tip of their tongues since they first laid eyes on me. The basic script runs as follows:
“Are you haredi?”
“Yes.”
“Are you married?” Here they glance down at my left hand, as they prepare to lob the final grenade.
“So, tell me,” they say with assumed casualness. “How is that you don’t cover your hair?”
I’ve learned that the best response is a simple one, and so I briefly explain that yes, I do cover my hair and pay about a thousand dollars for the privilege. And thus, my interlocutors are first introduced to custom wigs.
“Yes, a wig,” I repeat, lest they think they’ve misheard. As expected, they then begin staring at my hairline, in a hopeless attempt at solving the mystery.
But even if they gaze at me for a billion years, their inexperienced eyes will never be able to detect that which my brilliant wig stylist has expertly camouflaged.
“It really doesn’t look like a wig,” gushes a surprised governmental spokeswoman, who shall remain nameless. The office where she works has been racked with one scandal after another, and I had wrongly assumed that nothing could shock her anymore.
“Can I touch it?” she inquires. Against my better judgment, I politely nod yes and find myself being patted like a pedigreed poodle.
“You really can’t tell that it’s not your own hair,” she exclaims in amazement. She then wonders how this miracle, which costs as much as an average monthly salary, is made.
Wigs in a nutshell
To save myself time in the future, I’ve compiled a quick rundown of what my best friend calls “the race to the custom.”
Let there be no mistake. A custom wig – which, as the name implies, is customized and personally fitted to the buyer’s head - is a very expensive purchase. Prices can reach upwards of $2000. That’s about the cost of a romantic trip for two to Greece.
Is it comfortable? Yes, definitely. But don’t talk to me in the middle of July or August when I’m wearing this “comfort” on my head. The results won’t be pretty.
And to answer the ultimate question: Don’t I have anything better to waste my money on than a wig? Well, yeah, of course I do.
But we’re talking about something that sits on my head for long periods of time, year-round. So I think you’ll agree that it’s a worthwhile investment – as long as I don’t get in over my head.
Tali Farkash is a haredi journalist.
