December 31, 2003

Alison on Aliyah:  Improvisation

            I can usually tell when I need a haircut.  It’s right around the time that my dog starts to stink.  I don’t know quite how it happened, but some time ago, she and I managed to get on the same hair-cutting schedule.  So whenever Sava’s hair starts to get long and matted (and thus, a little smelly), I know it’s been about three months – which generally also signifies that I am ready for a little trim myself.

            We’ve been here for a few days short of three months now, and the moment that I have been dreading arrived.  It took me ages to find someone suitable to cut my hair on the east coast – for three years, I waited (sometimes six months) until an inevitable visit back to my family and favorite hair care specialist in Seattle.  Finally I faced facts and, quaking in fear, I went to a new person.  It was not easy.. and I quickly became attached to my east coast hair wizard.  I got my hair cut two days before I left for Israel, but I knew this day would come.  The water and the weather is hard on hair here, so the wear-and-tear process has been drastically accelerated.  Thus, with trembling voice, I booked an appointment with a supposedly highly-recommended professional here in Jerusalem.  My next phone call was to a supposedly highly-recommended groomer for Sava.

            Long story short, we both got butchered.  Sava went from looking like a very small, very shaggy Ewok to a sheared lamb, and as short as her hair is now, it still isn’t even – she has tufts of hair a good half-inch longer than others nearby.  She doesn’t know the difference, of course, except that now she’s freezing every time we go outside.  I, on the other hand, can barely bring myself to look in the mirror.  I look like a clown, with my curly hair a good three inches shorter than I asked for, and the subtle layers I requested manifesting themselves as big chunks of hair missing from key parts of my head.  Okay, okay, it’s not that bad.  In fact, most of my friends here can’t even tell the difference – which is all the more disconcerting.  Anyway, I’m most unhappy with it, and it has altered my already youthful appearance so much so that whereas people generally comment that I look sixteen, I am now getting guesses of twelve and thirteen.  Not helpful when I will be sitting in interviews for acceptance to a master’s program in clinical psychology.  It’s going to be a long month of ponytails and hats for me – and probably the hated doggie sweater for Sava.

To be honest, it’s been a tough couple of weeks.  Because of the strike that is still ongoing after over four months, I still haven’t received my “lift,” or container of all my clothes, books, furniture, and personal items in the world.  I’m still sleeping on an airbed, with no dishes, silverware, desk, or all the other little things I didn’t realize I would need right away.  With every passing day I'm feeling more and more like I'm just camping out here, not really living as a citizen or in a real home.  To not be able to count on little things like being able to get the haircut I requested or have a bowl to make a salad (much less the knife to cut the vegetables with).. that makes it all the more difficult to feel a real part of the culture and country here.  But I suppose this is all part of what everyone refers to as the hardships of living in Israel.  Everything is just a little more complicated, a little more difficult, requires a little more effort.  So while I'm adjusting to what I hope is a temporary situation, I'm also making much more important adjustments in mentality.

The other day, I was putting together a piece of furniture with an Israeli friend of mine.  There was a bolt missing and for about ten minutes, we weren't sure what to do next.  I, of course, began to fret and get frustrated -- after all, I was ready to have this thing assembled, I wanted it done immediately, and I wanted it done correctly.  In short, I wanted it perfect.  My friend looked at me, chuckled, and told me simply, "Alison, if you're going to live in Israel, you are going to have to learn one thing -- to improvise."  He then looked in my toolbox, found another screw (with matching bolt) that wasn't perfect.. but it worked.  And we successfully put the furniture together.  And once again, I realized that being a new olah means making a lot more compromises, and a lot more improvisations, and a lot more changes to my way of thinking, than I ever could have expected.