I recently celebrated my one-year wedding anniversary. I also celebrated a year of covering my hair. This complicated halakha plays such a central role in my daily routine. Berets, wigs, hats, falls . . . they are the last item I put on before I leave the house and the first thing I take off when I return home. In my new sacred and beautiful married life, kissui rosh (hair covering) seems to be my only unnatural adjustment. Several of my wedded friends recently have removed their sheitels, no longer wanting to struggle with the oppression. They want to feel the wind in their hair; they want to recognize themselves in the mirror; and most importantly they do not want to endorse a custom that at some time might have symbolized a woman’s subordination to her husband.
In the Talmud, Tractate Ketubot 72a, we learn that a woman who leaves her house with her head uncovered may not collect her ketubah money in a case of divorce. The rabbis debate the origin and nature of this law: how much of her hair must be covered, in what locations it should be covered. Despite the varied opinions regarding its details, virtually all halakhic authorities agree that Jewish law requires a married woman to cloak her hair in public. (I have found a handful of responsa that claim that the Talmud’s reference is to a woman who behaves inappropriately in public. They argue that since in today’s society it is acceptable for a woman to reveal her hair, the halakha of kissui rosh does not apply today. In my opinion, it is difficult to rely upon these authorities, who are in the extreme minority.)
My halakhic conviction – my deep-held belief that the Jewish legal system with its Divine foundation offers the most meaningful and necessary lifestyle – forces me to keep my hat on. Faith in the system requires my acceptance of the system as a whole. While I may not understand (or even agree with) some details of the practical halakhot, I do adore and revere the larger endeavor. A part of me wishes that covering my hair for the sake of halakha would be enough of a reason to feel comfortable with the law. If halakha is ultimately God’s will, then keeping any piece of it should be sufficiently rewarding and thrilling. However, I am influenced by Maimonides, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, and so many others who argue that we can and should search for logical, human reasons for the halakhot. By applying our intuitions to God’s laws, we elevate the theological enterprise.
So what does a modern Orthodox married woman gain by covering her hair? Or more personally, what do I gain by covering my hair? The question, of course, becomes more complicated when I consider the ways in which I hide my hair. If my hats are meant to serve as external simanim, public signs of marriage, then how can I wear a fall? (My fall, by the way, looks exactly like my hair, only nicer). If my hats and wigs function as garments of modesty or as reminders of God above, like the kippah, then why don’t my single friends wear them? The rationale that a woman’s hair becomes ervah (a nakedness or sexual enticement) after she is wed seems unconvincing. (In Tractate Berakhot 24a, we learn that several parts of a woman’s body are considered ervah – including her pinkie finger! Since it is difficult to believe that the pinkie finger is considered to be particularly arousing, we understand that the Talmud is not claiming that these parts of the body are inherently ervah, but rather that men are forbidden to gaze at them in an erotic manner, especially while praying.)
So what lies at the root of this halakha? It seems that the essence of kissui rosh embodies both an objective standard of propriety and a more flexible, socially determined criterion of respectability. Jewish law always will obligate a married woman to wear something on her head in public, but the extent and form of the covering are dependent on the accepted standard of the religious women of her community. The law was first dictated in a period when seemingly all women, Jewish and non-Jewish, single and married, covered all their hair in public. As secular mores changed, the Jewish married women held on to the customs and coverings of their mothers from the earlier ages. Eventually, wigs became accepted in most circles as an alternate form of covering, shifting the focus from an external sign to an internal one. Since today as well, most observant women are maintaining the traditions of their European grandmothers, the halakha of kissui rosh has remained unchanged. In that sense, by wearing hats and wigs, I am consciously identifying myself with generations of pious Jewish women, following in their practices and footsteps.
Rabbi Saul Berman shared with me a unique insight into the essence of kissui rosh. The allusion in the Torah for head covering can be found in the description of the laws of Sotah (a women accused of infidelity). There it says, “Ufara et rosh ha-isha” (Numbers 5:18), that the priest must uncover or untie the woman’s hair, seemingly to shame her. The words “parua rosh” (uncovered hair) also appear in connection with the laws of the kohanim (priests), for they are forbidden to let their hair become parua or unkempt (Leviticus 10:6, 21:10). Perhaps this implies that when a woman binds her hair, she is likening herself to a priest. Just as tzitzit (similar to the kohen’s head ornament, tzitz) can be viewed as priestly garments worn by men, a head covering can be regarded as a priestly garment worn by women. When I was in elementary school, I wanted to wear a kippah and tzitzit like the boys in my class. I wanted to display my Jewish pride publicly, and I desired the opportunity to constantly “wear” a mitzvah. In some sense my hat grants me that privilege now. Both tzitzit and hats serve as constant reminders that every Jewish man and woman are part of the priestly nation, with obligations to fulfill God’s commandments. I will never forget the special moment that my husband and I shared on the day after our wedding when, for the first time, he donned his tallit and I, my hat.
Of course, my hair covering also allows me to prove to myself that I do not observe only the halakhot that I like and that are convenient. Since I grew up observing and loving Shabbat and kashrut, it is difficult for me to feel the sacrifice in keeping these commandments. Through hair covering, I demonstrate every day that I live my life by a higher standard. My hat and wig help me commit myself to a Godly system that need not always be comfortable. In that sense, my hair covering fits perfectly well into my new married life, a life that is constantly elevating my spiritual being.