“The ladies decided that a sheitel looked too much like their hair,” my American grandmother, born and bred in America’s South at the beginning of the twentieth century, told me. “They talked about it for a long time, debating the pros and cons. In the end, they decided they could do better – raise the bar on tznius – and everyone started wearing hats.
“But, you know, a hat is not so comfortable around the house, and ladies took it off when they came in,” my grandmother continued. “Then, slowly, they forgot to put it back on when ‘just stepping out.’ Finally, it became acceptable to wear hats only to shul or formal gatherings, but in informal setting, the ladies went bareheaded. Had they not tried to be overzealous, this wouldn’t have happened.”
I grew up hearing this story about a Jewish community numbering in the hundreds, which ended up with only five sheitel-wearing women. The rest went with hats – or, more accurately, non-hats. And ever since listening to my elderly grandmother’s stories, I knew what I would do in her merit when the time came. It would have something to do with sheitels. When she passed away last year, at the ripe old age of 98, I went right to work. And, indeed, it had to do with sheitels.
* * *
My first attempt was a failure. I had come across an article describing how to purchase new sheitels from Aliexpress. I live in Jerusalem, and most people in my neighborhood don’t have computers with internet access, nor do they know enough English to communicate with the Chinese sellers. They would need help navigating the website, reading instructions and making out their orders.
That looked like something I could do to help women get cheap wigs, but first I had to try it myself. I communicated with the article’s author about all the details, contacted the seller numerous times, and finally got a sheitel. It was nice, and I still wear it, but it’s kind of quirky and needs specialized care to look decent. Still, it was something. “Hey,” I thought, “I can do this for Bubby. I’ll help my Israeli neighbors and friends buy cheap sheitels.”
My first “client” was the wife of my husband’s friend. He was all excited for his wife to get a new sheitel for next to nothing (well, comparatively), and I was excited to do something in Bubby’s merit. The sheitel came, and although I thought it was nice, the friend’s wife didn’t like it. She cut it herself, insisted on washing it herself, and, what do you know, it looked horrible. She ended up giving it to her kids to play with.
I was discouraged. This wasn’t working.
Bubby’s first yahrzeit was coming up and I still had done nothing for her. I thought of donating something, making a contribution – after all, Bubby was an avowed Zionist, all into contributing to the community and helping build Israel. But my mind kept coming back to those sheitels. There had to be something.
It was my husband’s brainchild. “What are you going to do with your old sheitel that’s sitting in the closet?” he asked a few days before the yahrzeit.
“I don’t know. I’m saving it for someday, or something.” I really didn’t know why I was saving it – I hadn’t worn it in years and the top was old. But the hair was still soft and silky, and it felt like a waste to just give it to the kids to make a hair-ball.
“So why don’t you advertise a sheitel gemach in Bubby’s memory? Tell people they can send you their wigs that aren’t being used, and you can give them to women who don’t have money to buy new ones.”
Wow! How simple. I got the contact information for a number of religious newspapers that print people’s letters in a once-a-week column, and sent out a notice about the new gemach.
* * *
The first week, they didn’t print my letter. Neither did it go in the second week’s edition. Life got busy and I forgot that I sent those letters. But one Tuesday morning, about a month after I sent the original letters, the phone started ringing at 7:30 a.m.
Thankfully, it was a Tuesday, my day off from work. The phone didn’t stop ringing. I could get nothing done. I was scribbling furiously page after page of information about wigs – where they were, color, length, style, age. My mother sent me some money to make pickups and deliveries from far-off locations so I promised all callers to get back to them when I had someone to pick up their sheitels. I decided that I would arrange nothing in those first few days after advertising – it was just too much. All I did was answer the phone and take down information – who wanted what, to give or to get – and contact information.
Then came the gathering-all-the-sheitels stage. To get the sheitels, I had to try to find some connection with people from all over Israel. It was getting very complicated. I dug up distant relatives from other cities, called friends from high school and earlier – it sure was a great way to reestablish old connections! – and the sheitels started rolling in. I was getting nervous. Where would I store all these wigs? They started taking up space, and my Jerusalem apartment isn’t that big!
My husband had to keep reminding me that there were people waiting for those wigs, and they wouldn’t sit around here for too long. So many people needed wigs and had no money to pay for new ones, which are so prohibitively expensive. Did I have anything nice?
* * *
The phone calls from people wishing to donate wigs tapered off after a few days. After a week they stopped coming in altogether. I guess people had already thrown out the newspapers. But the calls asking for sheitels kept coming on a steady basis. Every day or two brought another call, and they didn’t stop.
Usually, the callers were female. On the rare occasions that men called, it was very sensitive. One man called to donate his late wife’s sheitel collection. I took down his name and address, only afterwards realizing that his wife had been a teacher in my school. I recalled how she had suddenly passed away a year before, on a Friday night. Rumor had it that she had been nifteres just after serving the soup. She had been my sister’s teacher as well, and we all got the shivers discussing that donation.
Another person, an older man, wanted to receive a sheitel. “Is it for you?” I asked him hesitantly. “Because I don’t have anything for men….” Turns out, he wanted a piece for his wife. They lived in Teveria, and I was in Jerusalem. Could he pick something up for her?
There were some who called just to rant – about sheitels, head coverings, and everything else under the sun. These were exclusively male voices, and my kids loved them – they took turns answering. It was free entertainment! When I got those prank calls I just said, “If you don’t want to donate, nor do you want a sheitel, goodbye.” I don’t think the same prankster called twice.
Various people helped in pickup and delivery. On one blustery day, the week before Pesach – yes, we have such days, even in Jerusalem! – I needed the kids out of the house, so my husband offered to do a sheitel collection round in the next neighborhood with all the children. They got bundled up and set out to three addresses in the same neighborhood. After they traveled for three-quarters of an hour on the bus (we don’t own a car), one person didn’t answer the door, the other was not home, and the third forgot where she had put the two sheitels she wanted to donate! But Hashem rewards for the efforts, not results.
One brother-in-law, who learns in a certain neighborhood, offered to do a pickup run after kollel. He stood in front of a door, prepared to knock, when he overheard a man shouting at his wife, “Why are you giving away all your wigs? You’ll have nothing to wear!” He ran downstairs and called me. “Cross them off your list,” he said breathlessly. “It’s halachicaly problematic to collect from them.”
A woman from Tifrach, in the faraway Negev, called to donate. She never came to Jerusalem. I had no idea how I would get her wig. Finally, she told me she could give it to her sister-in-law from Kiryat Sefer, who could give it to a friend of my brother-in-law, who could give it to said brother-in-law. Somehow, it got here. But I still have a wig waiting in Haifa.
Calling someone to ask for a favor (“Can you send your daughter to pick up a wig from a family on the next block?”) can be uncomfortable – or even embarrassing. I’m the type not to ask people to bring me a package from relatives overseas or even the more accepted, “Can you buy me mascara in the Duty Free?” Asking someone to do me a favor just because they are passing through that place is just beyond me. It feels like I’m taking advantage of them. I had to keep reminding myself that this was an important mitzva, and of how grateful the women would be when they received a sheitel free of charge. And when people heard that my request was for a gemach, they were usually very willing to help out wholeheartedly.
After I had amassed a nice-size collection, I started calling the ladies who wanted wigs. They came from near and far, mostly from far. Whenever someone was coming, I cleared out a bedroom, rubbed my hands with perfumed silicone cream and pulled down the shades so the neighbors wouldn’t look in. The room I used for sheitels had a big mirror, which was (thankfully!) mounted on the outside of the closet. I started trying to give away my wares.
And they went – so fast that I had a hard time maintaining my collection, and I had to keep scavenging for more. Not a night went by without one or two women coming from other cities, a sad look in their eyes. Their stories were basically the same: “My sheitel’s a shmatte, but who can afford to buy a new one in this day and age?” How glad they were when they left! One woman hadn’t changed her wig in 13 years. She was desperate.
“I never had a nice sheitel in my life.” she said. “When I got married, I was a young baalas teshuva with not a penny to my name. My husband is waiting for me downstairs.” The first wig she tried on was it! It was long, luxurious, and shiny, although it desperately needed a wash. She ran the brush through the wig and started to cry. “I’ve been married for 35 years and haven’t looked this nice in my life,” she said. She hugged me, crying, and showered blessings on the anonymous donor.
“And also my grandmother,” I reminded her. Bubby must have loved it. Blessings are nice, but I’m not a gushy, exclamation-point person. It’s just not my type.
Then came a woman from out of town who never wore wigs. “In my community we only wear scarves,” she said. “But I want to wear something nice at home for my husband. I don’t feel pretty enough anymore. I think I must be getting old.” I understood her – a woman needs to feel nice in order to be nice. She must have felt old and ugly, and was afraid that she was projecting that feeling on her family and husband. She was glad to take a defective wig that nobody had wanted. “I look 20 years younger!” she exclaimed, and made me a nice long Mi Shebeirach, along with Yizkor for Bubby. I blushed.
* * *
Only after the “customers” started coming did I realize what I had done – I had actually done something in public! I had to talk to many different, sometimes strange people, (and to me, everyone had something strange about them!) be nice, talk a lot, show off my “merchandise” and give the ladies a good feeling about what they were getting.
Now, this was completely against my grain. I’m a natural introvert. I prefer sitting at home reading a book (or, preferably, books) to going out to a wedding or taking my kids to the park (and meeting all the park bench ladies). It was enough I had a job as an English teacher and had to interact with students and other teachers in the morning. By the afternoon I’m usually exhausted from interacting with too many people and don’t want to see or be nice to anyone. My idea of a great trip is going to the desert. Crowds make my skin crawl, and the best place to be is in a deserted place as far as I can get from humanity. (Sometimes my husband doesn’t count. Sometimes he does.) This past vacation, we actually went on a hike in the Judean Mountains and saw no human being for the full four hours of the hike. We did meet a donkey, but I didn’t have to smile at him and say ‘Hi.” My propensity for solitude must be genetic. My grandfather’s idea of a vacation was spending time on an island in the middle of the Pacific. And he did it, about 60 years ago. He loved it – couldn’t stop talking about it for the rest of his life.
Having strange ladies come to my house, many times with their husbands and kids was very tiring. I felt obligated to pull myself together even if I didn’t feel like it, put on a smile even when I wanted to frown, and open my door when all I wanted to do was shut myself in my room and see no one. But after collecting those wigs, I felt it was my duty to distribute them, and being nice and hospitable was part of the obligation. This was just part of the mitzva of making someone feel good about themselves – to be gracious, excited, forthcoming, and saleslady-ish, even if it was the farthest thing from the real me.
This was really stretching myself out of my comfort zone, and my family expressed constant understanding and appreciation for my efforts, so I was encouraged. Every sheitel someone took and felt good about herself meant giving one more family a happier mother. Many saw these gifts of sheitels as an expression of Hashem’s love – they were getting something gorgeous, worth thousands of shekels – for free. I was actually spreading more chesed and kindness in the world. But it sure was hard. Well, anything good comes with a price tag.
What made it somewhat easier was the knowledge that nobody who had money would stoop to going to a sheitel gemach. This was also the rational that guided me when people called and asked, “What are the criteria for receiving a sheitel?” I told them there were none. The mere fact that they were asking for a sheitel was enough to make them eligible. So, when people called and asked for a wig, I felt like the ultimate benevolent benefactor – giving unfortunate women a second chance at beauty.
When the women arrived at my door, my assumption proved correct. They were poor kollel wives, mothers of large families, or just plain poor. This was the ultimate experience of tzedaka giving.
* * *
One Friday morning I got a call that two people wanted to come – a young woman with her mother. They both needed wigs. Just that morning, three new wigs had come in, one very stylish and high-quality. I hoped the young lady would be happy with it.
As soon as the two walked in I realized that something was wrong with the mother. She must have been a stroke survivor; her speech was slurred, and her body movements were slow and awkward. The daughter put the sheitels on her mother and sometimes slipped up and spoke about her as if she weren’t there.
“This is no good for her; that’s no better. Have anything longer? Fuller?”
“I think she should take this one – it has more potential. Okay, Mommy?”
The young daughter totally dominated her mother and took charge of the whole situation. I don’t know if it was because of her pushy, intimidating personality or due to the difficult situation she was dealing with, but standing there offering them wigs, I felt as if they were the ones doing me a favor, not the other way around. I tried to put on my best saleslady act, but the young one practically ignored me. I almost wanted to pack the wigs up and say, “Oh well, there’s nothing better here today,” but I didn’t. Someone had come, this was my obligation.
I offered the young daughter the gorgeous wig I had just gotten, and she didn’t flinch. I saw no excitement on her face, no joy or appreciation. “This looks okay,” was all I got from her. “I think we should take it.” And that was it. No exuberant thank yous, no blessings or good wishes. Just a dry “thank you very much” and they were gone. That young lady just walked out with the best wig I ever had. I had so badly wanted her to be happy and appreciate it, but she just took it with a nonchalant “thanks.”
Thinking about it afterwards, I realized it was another workout for my chesed muscles. I was practicing giving for the sake of giving, forgoing my own desire for the gratification that comes from giving something that is appreciated, and withstanding the pain of my offers of good cheer being disregarded. Truthfully, I could understand the young lady. She must have been through something very difficult, being only 25 years old with an ill mother. And why did she need a wig? She couldn’t have gotten married so long ago. Where was the wig from her wedding? She must be having a hard life. I really had to judge her favorably. Still, it was hard for me to overcome my feelings of humiliation at the hands of a 25-year-old pipsqueak who ignored me, thought she knew everything, and thanked me like you would a bus driver for a 10-minute bus ride. And that great wig, what a waste. She wasn’t even excited.
* * *
This was a real lesson in humility – I was actually only doing a service, passing on expensive items from one person to the next, serving as Hashem’s messenger. Obviously, the sheitel I had just gotten was intended for this unfortunate young lady, and I was privileged to see His handlings by taking on the job. Trying to gain pleasure from appreciation was not my job description; it was beyond my call of duty. All I could do was hope this woman would make good use of the great wig and appreciate my gain: I had been privileged to give something, without remuneration – not even a smile. Another lesson in the art of chesed.
I had to constantly remind myself that I was gaining from all this, nobody else. I should really be thanking Hashem for the opportunity He had given me to do chesed with other people. Each person who came to my door was another chance, another opportunity to link myself to Hashem, to walk in His ways. Standing in an office one day, I overheard a woman wearing a fairly decent wig complain to her friend that her new sheitel was taking so long to be made. “Oh well, I’ll just have to continue using this old rag for two more weeks. My daughters can’t wait for me to give it to them so they can practice ‘styling’ it.”
I couldn’t stand by and allow a nice sheitel become a real rag! “Oh, no! Please,” I interrupted the conversation, “Don’t give your sheitel to your children to play with. I have a sheitel gemach, and many unfortunate ladies are begging for a sheitel just like yours.” But she wouldn’t hear of it, “No, my kids have been waiting for this for a long time, forget it.”
I guess not every person is granted the opportunity to give – one has to be worthy of it. This thought changed my whole perspective. Instead of seeing the gemach as a burden, obligation, or thankless job into which I sort of fell and from which I didn’t quite know how to extract myself, I began seeing it as a present: Hashem deemed me a chesed-worthy, a person who can spread kindness in the world. I was chosen, special, capable.
The most inspiring message came through one of the women. She had traveled from Bnei Brak just to try and find a new sheitel for herself after all her old ones had become hairless shmattes. She called to tell me how much she was enjoying her wig, and then shared her thoughts. “You know, what you do is very important. I really should learn from you and find something I can do for others. Maybe, I, too, should open a gemach. I should also look for what people need and what I am able to do. Look,” she said, “I have an older divorced sister. She’s having a really hard time finding a match. Maybe I’ll try to suggest some shidduchim to singles I know.”
She was going to look for chances to do more kindnesses after seeing the sheitel gemach. Chesed perpetuates chesed. G-d’s chain of kindness is constantly in the making, one link fastening itself to the other to spread more kindness and joy in the world. Look for your own chance to join.
May the inspiration from this article be le’iluy nishmas my dear Bubby, Chaya Sara bas Chaim Rephoel a”h. To donate your old sheitel, please drop it off at the Adlers, 423 Yeshiva Lane, or call 410-484-4172 or 410-350-6898 to arrange drop-off at Bais Yaakov or TA..
