I got my hair cut the other day, as I have countless
times. It was no big deal for the barber
– just another head in the chair, #2 on sides and back, finger length on
top. But it was significant for me.
I hadn’t cut my hair since before my step-mother’s
funeral. During the 30 days of mourning that
followed, known as shloshim, I observed the tradition not to cut my
hair. (I tried not to shave, but my
beard got so scraggly that I didn’t think it was fair to the couples I was
marrying to show up unkempt at their weddings.
And besides, my throat was unbelievably scratchy.)
With each passing day, I saw my hair grown longer and
greyer. I didn’t bother me at first. But then I grew uncomfortable with my
appearance, of looking like a man who didn’t care. My external appearance came to reflect what
was going on inside me -- a sense of disorder,
of wildness, even. Each time I looked in
the mirror, I was reminded that things were not as they were supposed to
be: not just my hair, of course, but in
my father’s life especially. His beloved
companion, with whom he was supposed to travel the remainder of his days, had
left him behind. We were lost and
uncertain just what to do next, out at sea without a compass. I was beginning to look like a bedraggled
sailor.
As I sat in the barber’s chair, I thought of all the
experiences this month of mourning had brought me. I had observed shiva with the older Religious
School students, and remembered their thoughtful consideration of the feelings
of loss: “relief, orphaned, empty,
regret, thankful, helpless, numb, unfinished, lonely, overwhelmed, heavy,
closed off, confused.” I had felt all of
those. I brought to mind the hundreds of
cards, emails, and hugs I’ve received from you, and my deep gratitude for them.
I recalled officiating at another
funeral, and staring at a coffin just like my step-mother’s, reeling as I
contemplated the unbounded loss that sealed box represents. I thought about the drawn out bureaucracy of getting
my name added to a safety deposit box, and the bags of clothes we’ve hauled
away.
And, most poignant of all, as the clippers cut away a
month’s growth, I felt myself standing once again with my father at his wife’s
fresh grave, exactly 30 days after she was laid to rest. In that place, boundary of grass patch still
visible, I tried to intuit what my father was feeling. I pondered the depths of darkness in the soil
below, and wondered what was happening to the memories of all we had shared, my
step-mother and I. And I felt the
enormity of the truth that all roads lead here.
In Biblical and Prophetic times, the Nazarite was a person
who voluntarily dedicated him- or herself to God. For an amount of time they themselves determined,
Nazarites would refrain from consuming grapes or wine, and from cutting their
hair. I now understand better what a
constant reminder their growing locks were to them. With every turn of the head, they’d remember
the promise they’d made. They’d know themselves to be like the mourner: set
apart from all others, all those who think that today is like any other day,
and who live under the mistaken notion that this day is like tomorrow will
be. Both the Nazarite and the mourner
know that nothing lasts forever.
Thank you for all the cards, messages, hugs, donations, and
support. They have meant the world to
me, to Haim, to Jacob and to my father, with whom I shared them.
My hair is back to normal.
Our life, however, is not.
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