Splitting Hairs: An Interview with Rabbi Michael Broyde

In 2009, Rabbi Michael Broyde wrote a controversial article in Tradition magazine, in which he discussed the question of whether women’s hair covering was a biblical or rabbinic prohibition. Rabbi Broyde has just published a new book on the subject, “Splitting Hairs: The History, Law, and Future of Jewish Laws of Modesty and Women’s Head Covering,” which will be released in March, which covers the topic more extensively (https://bit.ly/3O02nED). Through a meticulous examination of sources spanning nearly 3,000 years—from the Bible, Talmud, and medieval commentaries to modern responsa—Broyde challenges the commonly held view within the Orthodox Jewish community about married women covering their hair. He argues that many of the traditional norms around modesty are not as immutable as they appear.

I had the opportunity to interview Rabbi Broyde about his new book. Below is the transcript:

You argue that Jewish law historically understood modesty—particularly women’s hair covering—as responsive to cultural norms rather than governed by fixed,objective standards. What are the strongest early sources that support this view, andwhere do you think later halachic thinking took a different turn?

As I explain in “Splitting Hairs,” the rishonim divide into three groups: objective, subjective, and mixed. Most of the Ashkenazic rishonim were in the subjective camp, and this is most explicit in the Ra’aviah (and many agreed with him) … and this is why I think hair covering is called a dat Yehudit and not a dat Moshe by Rabbi Karo in the Shulchan Aruch. Of course, a significant group of rishonim were in the objective camp, and the view of the Rambam is nuanced.

There is no single source for this, rather a recurring pattern across the classical rabbinic literature. From the Talmud through many rishonim, modesty—especially hair covering—is treated as a function of dat Yehudit, meaning socially defined standards of respectable behavior, and this is how it is classified in the Shulchan Aruch. In other words, the halacha presumes that what counts as revealing depends on how a given society understands modesty. The shift to objective comes much later. In the modern period, especially post-emancipation, halachic discourse increasingly presents hair covering as governed by fixed, objective standards, even though those standards are hard to square with the earlier sources. That in turn reflects no new discovery and more a change in how communities choose to framethe law.

In your research across nearly 3,000 years of texts, did you find a single moment—orset of moments—when flexibility around modesty began to narrow into the moreabsolute standards common in Orthodoxy today? What social or historical forces may have driven that shift?

There is no single decisive moment. The narrowing happens gradually, but the modern era is clearly pivotal. Until roughly 250 years ago, the subjectively determined model of modesty remained not only viable but often dominant. In fact, while the narrowing transition began with modernity, even as recently as 60 years ago, we still found many devoutly religious Jewish communities (not just individuals) where modesty standards for hair covering were subjectively determined: look around at our grandparents in America from the 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s, and you see a few Orthodox generations that were moser nefesh to keep kosher, to observe Shabbat, and to build mikva’ot – in an era where these things were hard and expensive. Yet, married women – even rabbi’s wives — did not cover their hair. This was not because it was too hard — keeping Shabbat and kosher was much harder — but because they did not think the halacha required such. This was true in countless societies where gentile women stopped covering their hair: people who kept Shabbat and kashrut and nidah did not cover their hair. Let me add that this was not a unique American response. In all the communities where gentile modest women did not cover their hair, substantial portions of the Orthodox community followed suit, from Germany to Lithuania and beyond.

I have always wanted to be a historian of halacha, and maybe it will be my next career. However, I am not, so I can only speculate as to what forces were socially or historically at play. Perhaps external pressures — assimilation, secularization, and later the sexual revolution—turned modesty practices into markers of religious identity and boundary maintenance. The various poskim who took a narrow view likely had a variety of motives, but I am confident that an honest and sincere understanding of the sources was their primary motivation, as it must be for all poskim.

Many Orthodox Jews view contemporary modesty norms as immutable tradition. How do you distinguish, halachically, between genuine mesorah and what you describe as relatively recent communal conventions?

This is an extremely important question. I think a crucial way to examine tradition is to ask what the previous generations did. We all know that in recent previous generations, completely Orthodox women did not cover their hair, and their communities did not consider their conduct sinful. This is not limited to one city, like Boston, but was true in Kyiv and Moscow and Berlin and New York: indeed, it was a common Orthodox response in every society in which modest gentile women were not covering their hair. A mesorah that is fifty years old is hardly an immutable tradition: the modern American halachic idea–that in a society where modest gentile women do not cover their hair, Orthodox women still do—is a relatively new idea.

Your 2009 Tradition article generated significant controversy, including a response by Rabbi Eli Baruch Shulman. Looking back now, how has your thinking evolved since that exchange, and in what ways does “Splitting Hairs” respond—directly or indirectly—to those critiques?

Rabbi Shulman’s reply was thoughtful and interesting; I thank him for it. Readers should examine it and will certainly gain much from reading it: https://bit.ly/3NSF0gi  What I have learned over the last 15 years is that communal controversy is measured by the topic and not by what the sources might say. Discussions of modesty issue create controversy. My own view of the halacha remains that those who see the rules for dressing modestly (even as to hair covering) as subjectively governed by societal norms have a few rabbinic authorities of the last century to rely on – and other than the Ben Ish Hai, they are obscure! However, there are many rishomim and the Shulchan Aruch itself who adopt or imply that subjective view, even about hair covering, never mind sleeve length.

The book reflects two developments. First, it expands the scope dramatically. An article can make an argument; a book can map the entire terrain. “Splitting Hairs” systematically traces the issue from the Torah through modern responsa, showing that the subjective model is not marginal but deeply embedded. Second, I am more explicit now about the sociological limits of theory. Even if the subjective model is the best reading of the sources, implementing it today raises serious concerns because of how sexualized contemporary culture is. The book responds to critics less by polemic (the bane of Orthodox discourse, to be honest) and more by depth—laying out the sources fully but acknowledging the real-world complications.

One of your central claims is that halacha requires women to dress modestly according to the norms of their surrounding society. How should Orthodox communities determine which societal norms are appropriate halachic benchmarksand which should be resisted?

This is a very good question and is challenging – but not impossible – to answer. “Society” does not mean whatever is popular or fashionable. The relevant benchmark should be how modest people—those committed to confining intimacy to marriage—dress in public. If such a group exists in a given culture, halacha can sensibly look to it. The problem today is that genuinely modest subcultures are harder to find. In societies with deeply objectifying cultural practices, communities may need to look more selectively or develop internal standards that approximate what a modest society might look like, even if that society no longer exists at scale; consider how attorneys dress when they go to court or bankers to work, as examples. My view of the theoretical halacha is clear: halacha requires women to dress like other modest women in society. Benchmarks driven by or derived from a promiscuous society need to be resisted. This is life in America … and every community needs to craft proper standards with care and judgment.

Critics worry that grounding modesty in cultural norms risks halachic relativism. How do you address the concern that this approach could undermine the binding nature of Jewish law?

This criticism is not correct. Countless areas of halacha are subjective – the Torah prohibits a man from wearing a woman’s garments and the reverse without attaching to the Torah an appendix containing a list of all garments and their proper gender. Rather, it directs one to look at how people dress in one’s society, and that determination evolves over time and changes depending on the place. Subjectivity is built into the halachic norms here and in many other areas. If that is relativism, so be it. This area of halacha requires that one look to the society around it, no different than the gendering of garments.

You emphasize that earlier halachic authorities were often more pragmatic and socially aware than we assume today. Why do you think contemporary Orthodox discourse sometimes resists acknowledging that flexibility of earlier generations?

I do not think this is generally correct. I think poskim need to understand halacha in a very pragmatic way and always be socially aware. Countless Torah giants in our community are excellent models of this. Rabbi Mordechai Willig (whom I ask questions of halacha to when I am uncertain, and who does not agree with the normative conclusions of halacha in this book) fits that bill. Poskim ought to be pragmatic and socially aware, and I hope all are. Mine are.

Beyond the legal analysis, this topic touches on lived experience—particularly for Orthodox women. How did awareness of real-world impact shape your writing, and how do you hope women who live with these norms will engage with your book?

I am blessed to answer many questions of halacha from a variety of people, and I do my very best to be aware of the real-world implications of every question I answer and every halacha l’maaseh article I write. I think that responsible poskim behave that way. The afterword—written partly as a letter to my daughters—reflects my concern with how theory meets reality, particularly in a culture that often objectifies women. Even when the law allows flexibility, wisdom and care are still required.

Do you see your work primarily as descriptive—explaining how halacha actually functioned historically—or as prescriptive, offering guidance for how communities should approach modesty going forward?

It is my hope that this book serves as a resource – it collects and translate as much as I thought would be needed for a reader to understand the halachic issues. But I also hope it leaves people with the sense that no matter what their practice is, there are other views which also have legitimate support.

What do you hope is the long-term contribution of “Splitting Hairs” to Orthodox halachic conversation? Is your goal to change specific practices, to reopen methodological debate, or simply to broaden the range of legitimate halachic voices on this sensitive issue?

I hope it does three things. First, I hope it reopens methodological debate by showing that the sources themselves are more diverse than contemporary rhetoric often admits. Second, I hope it encourages sociological honesty about how and why modesty norms function as they do. And third, I hope it broadens the range of legitimate halachic voices in a conversation that has been too narrow for too long. Artificial narrowness in halachic discourse is unwise.

Finally, there is an appendix to your book entitled “A Letter to My Daughters.” It is odd for a halachic work to have such an appendix. Can you explain?

I understood from the outset that this appendix would feel unusual (and readers of this interview can get a sneak-peak at it – https://bit.ly/4rnsS5m — which is precisely why I included it). The halachic chapters of the book argue that modesty has historically been shaped by social norms. But that claim, taken in isolation, risks sounding deceptively simple—almost abstract. The letter is there to complicate that simplicity. We do not live in a morally neutral society. Contemporary culture is often aggressively sexualized, commercially exploitative of women’s bodies, and confused about the relationship between dignity, autonomy, and desire. In such an environment, the fact that halacha once looked to surrounding norms where modesty was normal does not automatically translate into a clear or comfortable practical path forward in 2026. The letter is my way of acknowledging that tension honestly. Writing to my daughters allowed me to step out of the voice of halacha and speak as a parent who is deeply aware of both the strengths and dangers of modern life. I wanted to say: even if the law permits flexibility, wisdom may counsel restraint; even if something is technically allowed, it may not always be protective or empowering in practice. Halacha has always required judgment, not just rule-following, and judgment must account for cultural realities. Sadly enough, good judgment – like common sense – is not common.

The appendix also reflects a broader methodological point. Halachic discourse sometimes pretends that legal conclusions alone resolve moral complexity. They do not. Especially in an era when modesty is simultaneously contested, politicized, and weaponized—both within and outside Orthodox communities—there is value in naming uncertainty, responsibility, and care … and telling people that many mutar things are a bad policy, but not assur. The letter makes clear that my project is not about deregulating modesty, but about understanding how halacha navigates human dignity in difficult environments.

Finally, the letter is an act of accountability. It asks: if I am willing to make these arguments in print, would I be comfortable explaining them to the people I love most, and with whom the stakes are highest? Including that appendix is my way of answering yes—but also of admitting that living faithfully and wisely in immodest times requires more than correct doctrine. It requires humility, attentiveness, and ongoing moral conversation.

Let me end with a story. Many years ago, at the end of a lecture, an audience member came up to me and said sweetly and honestly, “Rabbi Broyde, you are so much more impressive in writing than in person,” and I suspect that this is correct. Readers with questions should email me at mbroyde@emory.edu.