Gray is Beautiful

Getting a haircut on the kibbutz is a scary experience. This is mainly because the cutter in question tends to get a little drunk with power. Instead of the light trim you asked for, you are likely to find half your hair suddenly on the floor. Not only that but every single time I go she discovers to her surprise how much gray I have.

It’s not a surprise to me. I’m well aware that the clock does not go backward. More to the point, the gray in my hair is appropriate to my age and I feel no need to cover it up. I’m actually happy to be getting old because it’s so much better than the alternative.

Of course, this all can be attributed to my background. I grew up in a very conservative city. Divorce was unheard-of, women always wore skirts and never trousers, and they never, ever dyed their hair. I rarely speak of this now. People will think I grew up on a different planet.

Perhaps I did. In any event, I take my graying head as a survivor’s merit badge. I earned every gray hair, and most importantly, I’m still here.

Hearts and Flowers

I didn’t post last week, never quite got around to it. It was my birthday as it happens and my step-daughter came to visit. It was the first time she saw me in my new natural habitat and we had a nice visit, lunching at The House of Wine.

Having my birthday on Valentine’s Day was always something of a mixed blessing. My parents played the heart theme to the hilt. I had hearts on my pajamas, heart-shaped pillows on my bed, heart-shaped rings on my fingers. After a while, corresponding with my progression into adolescence, it got to be a bit much. Then there were the strangers’ reactions whenever I had to give my birth date. “Your birthday is on Valentine’s Day? Aw, that’s so sweet!” With typical adolescent grouchiness I vowed that someday I would live somewhere where Valentine’s Day did not exist.

That of course came to pass when I moved to Israel. Nothing connected, however tangentially, with any Christian saint is officially sanctioned here. Under the chapter heading of Be Careful What You Wish For, I found I missed the sweet Valentine birthday specialness. I missed the ownership, the feeling that Valentine’s Day belonged to me in a way that it didn’t to most other people. I missed the chocolate hearts.

Not to worry, Valentine’s Day has been making a grassroots appearance over the last decade or so. This has been spurred I think by the vast marketing opportunity the holiday represents. Flowers, chocolates, romantic restaurant dinners, pieces of jewelry – the potential is too good to pass up. So if the trend continues, I may find myself back where I started. But this time without the grouchiness.

Love is Forever

There’s nothing like a good wedding to give you a rosy glow for an entire week. Two young people, bonded in love, joyous and radiant – nothing is better than this. Then there’s the added bonus of schmoozing with people you haven’t seen for far too long. G-d, I love weddings.

My step-granddaughter was married on Sunday in a ceremony that was understated and elegant. There was no phony opulence. The bride was not drowning in masses of white tulle and did not arrive in a horse-drawn baroque carriage. No doves were released. Instead, she wore a gown that was gorgeous in its simplicity. The hall was decorated with white lilies. All was simple and tasteful.

Her grandfather would have been so proud. I drank a whiskey in his honor. Ok, two. He really didn’t drink a lot, but there was nothing that man liked more than a shot of scotch, a trait he shared with my own dad who taught me how to drink it.

I’m a romantic. I admit it. I believe that everyone has a soul mate. I believe that some things are just meant to be. Most of all, I believe that love is forever.