The votes are in and the result is decidedly…inconclusive.

On February 8, I posted two pictures of me – one with short and one with long hair and asked readers to vote on which I should keep. I pointed out that my daughter Merav favored the long look while my wife Jody felt I was sexier with short hair. The goal was to grow it until Purim so Merav could dress me up like a girl for the holiday, then decide what to do. A month after the original post appeared here, the Jerusalem Post published the article in its Friday edition, both print and online.

As a result of all this exposure, over the course of the last month and a half I have received hundreds of opinions – by email, posted as comments to the blog, and in person - at one point a mini-van literally screeched to a halt in front of me as I was jogging and the driver yelled out "keep it long!"

Despite that dramatic proclamation, the votes were split almost evenly. Here are some of my favorite responses.










That final point was emphasized this past Shabbat in shul when Jody told me that, when she looked across the mechitza (don’t tell me that she shouldn’t be doing that, come on...we all do it), she was just not attracted to the man she found looking back. Well, what choice did I have. Two days later, Dave my haircutter worked his magic and I am once more my true love’s paragon.

Here's the result, a few hours after the haircut:



Thanks to everyone for being so interactive. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been writing This Normal Life for nearly five years now. Blogging is not about one-way publishing – it’s the feedback makes all the difference. So please keep on reading…and writing in!

An audio version of this post can be found here (including some hair appropriate music from Pavement - check it out!)

A couple of good friends of ours are getting married. In order to tie the knot, they needed two men to testify at the Jerusalem office of the Chief Rabbi that they are single and that therefore their upcoming marriage would not in fact be a case of forbidden adultery. They asked me to be one of the witnesses.

Despite misgivings about whether I should really be considered a trustworthy witness (how did I really know that they are single; both had been married before and I hadn’t actually seen their respective gets – their divorce decrees), I nevertheless welcomed the opportunity to indulge in what I figured would be an only-in-Israel experience. The whole thing struck me as antiquated yet vaguely charming in an Old World kind of way.

At the same time, I found myself feeling slightly annoyed. I mean, why does the State of Israel acting through the Rabbinate need me, some Joe Jew off the street they’ve never heard of, to say whether two people are single or not? This is a highly bureaucratic country – don’t they have adequate records? What could I possibly add that a modern PC couldn’t already do?

The Rabbinate's Marriage Department is in the basement of an apartment building in the center of town. It’s a dark and smelly place, with few windows and no posters of sunny Hawaii or other such forbidden destinations. It’s the kind of place I imagine you’d go at the end of your marriage rather than at the beginning.

I was told to wait outside room 26, under a plain sign reading “Receiving Testimony.” Several sample ketubot lined the waiting room wall; fake wood paneling provided a faux-homey feel. Various pamphlets and literature for new brides and grooms were on a table, but no secular reading material. No People Magazine, no Modern Bride, no Oprah. I flipped through a brochure in English and learned that soldiers, students, new immigrants and people on welfare are entitled to a 40% discount on their marriage registration fees. I guess I missed my opportunity.

There was no one inside room 26 but a black coat and hat hanging there gave me some clues as to its occupant. The desk was clear of clutter; no computer adorned this office.

I waited 10 minutes for the official state-designated receiver of testimony to return and then, as cheerfully as I could, handed him a formal looking document that the couple had faxed me. He pulled a thick folder off a shelf and began thumbing through it.

“How long have you known the couple?” he asked me, barely looking up from his paperwork.

“Twelve years for her, three for him,” I responded.

“And where do they pray?”

That was a rather presumptuous question, I thought. What mde him think that every couple wanting to get married necessarily prayed at all?

“Kehilat Yedidya, in Baka,” I answered as truthfully as I could, though judging from the frequency of their attendance at the modern Orthodox synagogue that I attend, I suspect they often prefer sleeping in on a Shabbat morning. But I’ve been in Israel long enough to know that any deviation from an expected, acceptable response could result in an unwanted and lengthy grilling. It’s like the security questions asked at the airport – it’s best to not embellish. At the airport they’re searching for potential terrorists. Here, they’re looking for liars. Keep it simple and they will get married and I’ll get to go on with my day.

“Who’s the Rabbi at Yedidya?” he asked.

Uh-oh, I thought. How do I answer that one and keep things kosher? The Yedidya shul deliberately doesn’t have a spiritual leader, instead making halachic (Jewish law) decisions by democratic consensus. Recently, the congregation held a spirited debate and vote about whether to institute mixed Torah readings where both men and women get called up to the bima (the proposed change was defeated, by the way).

But my interrogator, I surmised, wouldn’t necessarily appreciate the nuances of how this community grapples with change and modernity. Why open what could turn into a nasty can of worms?

“Um,” I hesitated for a moment, then thinking quickly replied, “well, David Rosen is a Rabbi.” That was true. Rabbi Rosen, who is the International Director of Interreligious Affairs of the American Jewish Committee, does pray there on occasion. And I didn’t say he was the Rabbi.

That seemed to be enough to satisfy the man on the other side of the desk. “And you’re sure that they’re single?” he asked me.

“Yup,” I nodded, relieved that things were moving again.

“Your identity card, please,” he said, and I pulled out my teudat zehut. An Israeli identity card contains two papers enclosed in a blue plastic case – a laminated one with your picture and permanent data on it, and a card with your address and other items that may change. As I handed it over, the case cracked in half.

“Tsk, tsk,” he tutted quietly. “You’re going to have to get that replaced.” When…I thought. Today? Was I going to get disqualified after all?

“It’s not a problem. You can get a new one in another nine months,” he said.

“Why so long?” I asked, surprised. Israel may be bureaucratic, but this seemed excessive.

“They’ll issue you a new one automatically when you have another child,” he said with a straight face. Was this an attempt at being personable?

The funny thing is, my wife and I have had some discussions in recent months about whether to have another child. How did he know? Was there something written on my face reading “midlife crisis, considering crazy idea, seeking encouragement”?

I signed a document in a couple of places and then I was released back into the fresh air to contemplate what had just transpired. What will come next? The only thing I can say for sure is that my friends can now get married. As for the rest, we’ll just have to wait and see…

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This article was originally published in the March 19, 2007 issue of The Jerusalem Report.

An audio version of this article - revealing the identities of the soon-to-be-married couple! - can be found at this link where you can also subscribe to the podcast.

Thirteen-year-old Merav’s phone call was teary bordering on hysterical. It was hard to make out what had happened: was someone hurt? Had she been jilted by a boy?

“It’s Jack,” she sputtered through breathless sobs. “He got away…we don’t know where he is…he could get killed…what are we going to do!”

Merav had been entrusted by our friend Mallory to take care of her dog Jack, a little runt of a mutt with canine ADHD, while Mallory got away for a few days to a bed and breakfast in the Galilee Hills with a no-dogs policy. It was Merav’s first real job, a baby step to people sitting, and she was taking her responsibility seriously.

“Tell me what happened, exactly,” I said to Merav.

Merav had been walking Jack and everything had been fine. She had arranged to take Jack to our friends Lynne and Adam’s house where Jack would have a canine "play date" with their dog Zoe. Jack had been let off the leash; when Merav opened the front door, Jack saw an opening and darted out. Merav quickly caught him.

“But then he bit me!” Merav said. “I had no choice. I had to let him go.” At which point, Jack bolted into the night. Adam ran out after him and began searching while Merav called me.

“He’s probably heading home,” Merav said, trying to think clearly while choking back the tears. Mallory’s house was about a ten-minute walk (or a two minute Jack run) away, just off Emek Refaim Street in Jerusalem's German Colony. “Adam’s going to wait for him there.” Then almost as an aside she said, “Could you bring some chicken?”

“Chicken?” I asked. “How can you be hungry at a time like this?”

“It’s for Jack. We need something to lure him into a trap. He likes chicken.”

I grabbed a slice of left over chicken breast from the weekend’s meal and we met Adam at Jack’s place.

“Any sign of him yet?” I asked. Adam shook his head.

Something darted across the street into the bushes. “Is that him?” Merav asked. But it was only a fat cat who, in the absence of sunlight, bore a remarkable resemblance to our tiny tormentor.

Adam took the chicken, laid it on the stairs, and hid behind the door.

Now by this time Merav had calmed down physically. But her mind was racing. She was afraid of what might happen to Jack…and to her. “Mallory trusted me,” Merav said. How could she live with herself if she betrayed her first major dog sitting job…with potentially grave consequences? Even if Jack was eventually captured, Merav was sure she’d be fired. Her budding business would go down the drain.

Merav and I began walking the neighboring blocks calling out for Jack, to no avail. At a nearby park on Elazar HaModa'i Street, we asked a man if he’d seen a little white dog with brown spots. He had, and pointed in the opposite direction. Jack apparently was enjoying his freedom.

After about a half hour of patrolling the streets, we checked in again with Adam. He hadn’t seen Jack yet but was willing to stay the distance. "Take Merav home,” he said. “There’s nothing much you can do until he comes back for the chicken.

“Call us if you need to be relieved,” I muttered, feeling more than a little guilty at stepping out at the height of the crisis.

Well, I’m happy to report that Jack finally showed up two hours later, presumably hungry but unashamed. He fell for the trap and spent the night in detention. Merav called Mallory.

“Oh don’t worry about it,” I heard Mallory say calmingly to Merav. “He does this all the time. We always get him home...after a bit.”

He does this all the time, I thought? I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or lash out. But Merav’s face was playing a different tune.

The heaviness was lifting as her overbearing guilt dissipated into the darkness. Relief spread like butter on a bagel. If there was a lesson in all this, it was that the power of forgiveness should never be underestimated.

“So, tomorrow, can you walk him in the morning and then again about two in the afternoon?” Mallory asked Merav.

“Sure,” Merav replied with a smile, once again counting up the money she’d earn now that she’d been pardoned with no time added for bad behavior.

As I tucked Merav into bed later that night, she asked me with great excitement and earnestness, “Abba, can we get a dog?” I thought she’d have been temporarily traumatized; I sometimes forget that remarkable ability kids have to bounce back.

“I’ll think about it,” I replied, “as long as he’s not named Jack!”

Jerusalem Post readers: to participate in the "My Hair" vote, click this link and add your comments to the end of the post.

Tucked away in the shadow of the Gaza Strip lies a magical meadow of rolling hills blanketed with rich red anemones and long green grass. Interested in visiting? You’d better act fast – the flowers are only in bloom for another two weeks.

This veritable Hobbit’s paradise is one of Israel’s true hidden gems, situated just behind Kibbutz Be’eri in the most unlikely of locations: between the barren, rough sands of the Western Negev desert south of Ashkelon and the Mediterranean Gaza coast that is home to some of the most violent real estate in the world. That the rolling meadows are not visible from the highway leading to Be’eri (but the tops of the homes from Gaza are) makes the trip all that more surprising.

Now is the time – the only time, really – to go for a visit. That’s when the calaniyot – the red anemones – are in full bloom. The season lasts only two to three weeks total. After that, the intense summer sun makes traveling in this desert region unpleasant. We headed out on a recent Friday morning with the whole family.

Traveling to Be’eri is no small commitment. It’s an hour and three quarters each way from Jerusalem (Tel Aviv area residents can make the trip in half the time) and is dotted with the modern version of “keep out” signs all along the way. In this case, these were traffic indicators reading “Gaza,” “Erez Checkpoint,” and “Rafiah” – all names from the news more commonly associated with kidnapping and missiles than the joys of nature.

It was no less daunting that the turn off to Kibbutz Be’eri is just past Sderot, the Israeli town that continues to be bombarded by Palestinian-launched Kassam rockets. As we approached the end of our drive, I couldn’t help thinking to myself: what in the world am I doing with my family here of all places? Are we being irresponsible to drive so close to a war zone? These flowers darn well better be worth it!

The meadow with the flowers is about an hour’s hike from the kibbutz. As a result, most people bring their bikes; the kibbutz also has a booming business renting two-wheelers. As we arrived, we were surrounded by hundreds of bikers, many decked out in their biking spandex. Apparently our buried treasure was not as super secret as we thought, at least among Israel’s growing bicycle enthusiast community.

Kibbutz Be’eri rents bikes for 60 shekels (about $14) each for the whole day; we rented bikes last year during a trip to North America and there it was $20 an hour, so this felt like a pretty good deal. I quickly found out why.

The seat on my bike kept slipping down from the position to which I’d raised it in order to stretch my legs out comfortably; the chain would slip randomly out of gear whenever I went up a slight hill; and about half way into the ride – too late to turn back and do anything about it – one of the kids called to my attention that my back tire was going flat. A recommendation: if you rent from the kibbutz, check your bike thoroughly…or bring your own.

Even these inconveniences could not interfere with the pleasures that awaited us. The ride starts along a road through the kibbutz fields. The wide-open space was a welcome change from the urban bustle of Jerusalem. After about ten minutes, there is a turn off to the left (the sign is clearly marked “Family Trail”) that begins to wind down a dirt path through the anemones. They are simply everywhere – whole hillsides turned red. It’s spectacular.

About 25 minutes into the ride, the landscape transforms again into a lush and rolling wooded area with an ancient cistern and water mill at the center. I’ve never been to a desert oasis, but I imagine this is how it would be.

We parked our bikes at one of the conveniently located picnic tables and ate our tuna and peanut butter sandwiches (no, not together…as eight-year-old Aviv would say, that would be gross). We explored a bit further before returning on the same path. Half an hour later, we were back at the kibbutz and buying ice cream for the kids.

Our route was rather tame – there are a full 24 kilometers of bike trails starting from the kibbutz and I assume many of the serious bikers we met were making a full day of it, rather than our relatively quick jaunt to Hobbit land.

Other than the odd juxtaposition of peaceful nature with the proximity to the nearby and decidedly un-peaceful Gaza, the day was perfect and well worth the shlep from Jerusalem. At this writing, you’ve got another week or two before the anemones are gone. Don’t miss it!

To get to Kibbutz Be’eri, head out of the center of the country on Highway 4, pass Ashkelon and at the Sha’ar HaNegev intersection next to Sderot, turn south onto Road 232. Go a few kilometers to the junction for Sa’ad and turn east (that’s a left) and after 300 meters, turn right. Follow the signs to Kibbutz Be’eri. You can reserve bicycles in advance by calling the kibbutz bike shop at 08-9949374 or 054-7918071.

Here are some pictures that YNET has posted of the anemones in the northern Negev.