A Tajikistan Haircut

Every time we come to Israel, it seems like I need a haircut. Maybe things just grow better here. After all, Bob Dylan correctly wrote about Israel: “He’s made a garden of paradise in the desert sand, in bed with no one under no one’s command.”

Indeed, this “neighborhood bully” just fighting to survive, has turned the desert green. If the desert is not totally green, it has become a place where fruits and vegetables are grown, farm-raised fish abound, water is desalinized, and clean power is produced. Truly, the land of Israel is a miracle. The rebirth of this nation, promised in the Bible, has largely occurred. It is for this reason that some Jews and Christians believe that the Messianic Age is upon us. One of the most ubiquitous features of this country is the presence of hair salons, beauty treatments and spas.  Sounds strange for a place where the temperature is extreme on the hot side, and war is so ever-present. My unproven theory is that since most people serve in the military upon graduation from high school, or at least do public service, they develop a different attitude about life than American young people. After the military, most of the youth serve in a reserve unit for a number of years. Reservists have largely fought the war against the terrorist regime in Gaza, Lebanon and Iran.  Given how challenging life can be in a country of eight million people, half the size of New Jersey, people look for a way to relax and enjoy.

In Israel, the clubs, cafes, and bars are oftentimes full. People enjoy life and realize how precious their existence is. My guess is that people want to look marvelous, and it is, after all, a young country.

I went to a place called Hair Mess. That is my translation, at any rate. This is not the only place to beautify oneself in Be’er Ya’akov, but it is nearby, handy and has plenty of people working there. Every time I go in, I practice my Hebrew to explain that I do not like a short haircut, that I do not want to try to look like a 30-year-old ex-army officer, and that I like my hair a little bit on the longer side. It does not matter what I say, how often I practice my Hebrew or how good the English is of the person cutting my hair. The haircut is always the same and is always much shorter than I would wish. Nevertheless, it is nice to have short hair in a hot climate. Not only that, but I do not need to get another haircut in the states for several months.

On this latest occasion, a pleasant gentleman introduced himself to me. He was wearing a head covering and looked very Mediterranean to me. His English was much better than that usually found in Be’er Ya’akov. He asked me questions about myself and America while he cut away. He explained to me that he was from Tajikistan, which he pointed out was a Muslim country.

The coiffeur explained to me that all the Jews in Tajikistan had to leave when the old Soviet Union broke down. He explained that some made it to America, some even had to go to Russia, but that the lucky ones made it to Israel. He considered himself one of the lucky ones and he extolled the great, honorable and egalitarian virtues of ancient Israel. He, like many Israelis, could not understand in the slightest why the world would not be totally empathetic to this nation. He asked me to explain how a population of eight million can be expected to fight year after year, day after day just to survive as a democracy in a sea of intranquility and hate for western values. He explained that having fled Tajikistan made him aware of how difficult things are in the rest of the world.

The haircutter, who translated his name as Ron, was clearly happy with his lot in life and warmly disposed to Americans and his customers. When he was done cutting my hair, it was extremely short on both sides, slightly longer on top, and I resembled an Israeli of my age and temperament. Without question, this will save me many haircuts in the next two or three months. My American family were horrified but my Israeli family thought I looked great. Just goes to show the difference between national expectations, even of how people should look.

I figured that I might as well do the Israeli thing after my haircut, and I immediately walked over to Roll Street (also a suspect translation) and had a chicken, salad and hot pepper concoction rolled in what looked to me like a tortilla. The peppers were so hot that I walked around with my mouth on fire for about two hours. It was, however, a great treat and made me feel better about my hair.

So, if you are ever in Be’er Ya’akov and need a haircut, make sure to ask for Ron, stop in at Roll Street for the most authentic middle eastern wrap you will ever have, and watch all of the young people in the park, in the cafes and on the streets clearly enjoying life in a way that we Americans might think about emulating.

I was complaining about my haircut to a local, who took a long hard look at me and said: “You should be happy that you have hair at all. Stop complaining!” I thought about that, and he was absolutely correct. No more complaining about my Tajikistan haircut. In fact, I will embrace my haircut, show it with pride, and indulge my fantasies that I look much younger than I am.

Be’er Ya’akov may not be the center of the world, and certainly not even the center of Israel, but it is nevertheless a wonderful place filled with warm-hearted, happy and energetic people. The Sephardic community is modern Israel, with all of its tempo, tempest and temerity.