Then comes that Friday night. The night that I don’t make it in time….
MY hand is raised, poised to knock, and then phew — I remember. My hair! I definitely can’t let Zeidy see me with my hair down. Ponytail holder on my wrist to the rescue; I twist my dark-brown curls into a low bun. That’s better. Now I can go inside.
Zeidy is sitting in the kitchen, a large sefer in front of him and a glass of hot water near it. He looks up at me, smiles in greeting, and nods approvingly. I let out a breath. Made it. But mixed with the relief — is that a twinge of guilt?
It’s funny; I get this way only with Zeidy. My teachers and principals have been reprimanding me for years about my hair. It’s not tzniyusdig, it’s not dignified, it’s not appropriate to leave your hair loose like that… but I like my hair down. That’s just me. And seriously, I’m in 12th grade already. So I ignore their shaking heads and disappointed looks and let my hair fly freely.
Until I get to Zeidy’s house. Zeidy reprimands me with humor, with understanding, with so, so much love.
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