I grew up with a loving, sheitel-wearing mother. My mother always looked put-together. Despite raising nine kids, being “a lady” and looking beautiful for my father was priority for her. She used to tell me the story of how a certain Rebbetzin walked into our home early on in her marriage, and found her looking a bit disheveled.
The Rebbetzin scolded her. “This isn’t the way a Jewish mother looks when her husband comes home.” My mother said “But my make-up is upstairs. I can’t leave the children in the middle of everything that’s happening to put myself together.”
The wise Rebbetzin gave her sage advice: “Keep some make-up downstairs.”
When my mother told me the story, I was quite young and I didn’t really understand why it was a story. It had no plot, no climax. All I knew was that our bathroom cabinet had cosmetics in it and that, of course, who wouldn’t want to look great.
Now I realize that my mother, ever the teacher, was telling me something important. She was sharing with me wisdom of womanhood – not that you always need make-up but that your appearance matters. And it doesn’t stop mattering once you’re raising a family. It’s an integral part of your marriage and, more than that, of your self -image.
Every job has a dress code, according to what the job is. When you dress in a lovely, put-together way as you show up for motherhood or wifehood, you’re letting the world know –you’re letting yourself know – that these jobs are important.
My sheitel-wearing mother taught me that being dressed and put-together every day has value. But how did that morph into my becoming The Tichel Lady? Most people think of tichels as casual wear – something you throw on when you’re doing housework.
To me, they’re the epitome of being dressed up. They’re part and parcel of my wardrobe, and I choose them as carefully as any item of clothing, accessorizing with pins, jewelry, and ribbons.
So how did I meet my tichel?
Many years ago, when I was engaged, my chassan Bezalel wasn’t too picky. He asked only one thing: “Please don’t wear a snood.”
Snoods may look great on some people, but this was his feeling and his request. So off we went to go hat shopping.
I spent the next few years trying to figure out how to wear a hat and still sit on the couch – the brim bumped into the cushion behind me – and how to deal with not having peripheral vision due to the lovely waves of my sheitel. I just couldn’t get comfortable. Neither one felt like me.
In truth, I was looking for tichels. Looking back, I was pretty silly. My mother-in-law is the original Tichel Queen. Ever since I met her, she had been wearing vibrant, beautiful, colorful tichels, smack in the middle of New York. Being a new bride, though (read, know-it-all), it never occurred to me to ask her! But I knew that my husband liked that look. If only I could find it. Though I lived in Israel at the time, I was in a very American neighborhood and just didn’t have access to the tichels I wanted. I didn’t even know where to begin.
One day I was in the shuk (outdoor market), and there, on some shelves close to the ground, were soft, richly colored, velvet tichels! Fifteen shekel each!! I couldn’t believe it! I had looked for these things for over a year, and there they were! Honestly, as I checked out, I couldn’t understand why the man selling it to me wasn’t as excited as I was. I practically danced home!
And so it began. My tichels started out simply as a way to look nice. It wasn’t really a big deal; after all, I was in Israel!
Slowly, I began to develop my own style. I never looked at tichels as simple or homely. I saw them as an opportunity for a uniquely regal look. I added ribbons and jewelry and layers. I delighted in the fabric and the possibilities.
Four years later, we moved to America. That’s where it really got interesting. I was wearing my tichel more and more, but I was committed to being “normal. I can’t even remember why that was so important to me now, but I used to say that, although I wore tichels, I still wore a sheitel for Shabbos and weddings and bar mitzvas.
I think it was because people would always ask me about it. They wanted to know what my position on wigs versus tichels was. My husband and I have a shita (a principle): Our shita is that we don’t have shitas. There’s no one-size-fits-all principle for anything that matters. So you may find us extolling the virtues of homeschooling, but not that we think it’s the only or best way. And as we expressed how much we were enjoying wearing tichels, I think we wanted to make it clear that this didn’t put us a in a “tichel only” category.
But a funny thing happened. Two funny things happened. One, my husband got a bonus, and I got a really nice sheitel. It was shoulder length, it was beautiful – and every time I wore it I felt uncomfortable.
The second thing that happened was that whenever I went to a wedding, there would be that one tichel-wearing woman, and I would find myself envious. I couldn’t help thinking how perfect it looked. How special, how authentic; Next to her, everyone else looked overdone.
And so, after cutting, dying, and chopping my wig in effort to be more comfortable. I finally got rid of it for good, keeping it only for a really special occasion – Purim!
That was 11 years ago. And it was just the beginning. Moving to Baltimore, joining Rabbi Goldberger’s shul, enjoying the rich diversity of Baltimore Jewish life, I soon found in myself a voice that had waited a long time to be expressed.
Suddenly I was not in a homogeneous place. I was not in my hometown with the social norms that are acceptable there. And I was not in my little town in Israel. I was in a place where 10 different types of Jews stood in line together at Seven Mile Market. I was in a shul where people were growing at their own rate, and there was love and acceptance for every level. There was color!
I saw singing and dancing, I saw joy in Yiddishkeit, and I saw authenticity and a tremendous amount of love and acceptance. It set me free. I had seen joy in my parents’ home. But outside of that, the Judaism I experienced was scary, with impossible standards and a disconnect between the Torah that I was learning and the idea of a loving G-d.
I began experimenting with tichels in a way that was natural. I embraced them. I realized that a tichel best expressed everything that I valued: Realness – I really cover my hair. No trying to look like I have hair. Nothing artificial. Pride – I could walk in the world with pride and strength, looking like the Jew that I am. Joy – I could enjoy color, the simcha, and the mood lift it brings. Expression – I could find a unique look. I could share my love of Yiddishkeit in all its exciting color and richness. My world has so much more than black and white in it.
I was freed from a Yiddishkeit that felt like it was just about getting the rules right – and I began to experience the fullness of a Yiddishkeit of growth though love. Ahava versus yirah.
And my tichel fit right in. It’s natural, comfortable beauty. It’s a cheerful, proud statement of “I am a Jew” to the whole world, truly made into a crown: a crown of a mitzva that I love and am so happy to do.
It’s 18 years later, and so my tichel journey has led down some amazing roads. Next stop: I meet Andrea – another Tichel Lady. Looking forward to sharing with you!
Check out Wrapunzel.com to see where the tichel journey has led.
