WHY THE OBSESSION WITH HAIR 

Most people worry about their hair for cosmetic reasons, but the Nazir’s story teaches us that there’s something far deeper growing on top of our heads.

The Hair Problem

The last time I was at the barber, he pointed out to me that until now, I only had white hairs, but that was only half the problem. Now I was making real progress: the white hairs were falling out. So I asked him, “Well, since I have less hair, should I have to pay less for the haircut?” He smiled a sad smile and commented: “Just the opposite—it’s going to cost you more today, because now I need to use a magnifying glass to find the hair.” 

People are really preoccupied with their hair. Some people color it to hide the grays and look younger. Others, the moment they notice it starting to thin, shave it all off and embrace the bald look. And then there are those who spend a fortune on treatments and transplants, desperate to hold on to every last strand. They just can’t get used to the idea of not having hair.

And of course, there’s the shampoo aisle. An entire industry built around hair preservation, each brand promising that their product is the one that will stop hair loss in its tracks. “Just try it,” they say. And plenty of people believe it’s working… until they look in the mirror and realize their hairline didn’t get the memo.

Hair is a big deal in our culture—but what does the Torah say about it?

In this week’s Torah portion, Naso, we read about the Nazir. A Nazir is someone who wants to elevate themselves spiritually, to create a deeper connection with G-d. So they take on a personal vow, usually for 30 days or more, and commit to living in a more holy, focused way.

What exactly does that mean? The Torah spells out three things a Nazir must do: First, he must avoid wine and any grape products. Second, he must steer clear of any contact with the dead—even being under the same roof as a corpse, or within about six feet of a grave. And third, he may not cut the hair on his head. In fact, he has to let it grow out fully, without trimming even a single strand during his Nazir period.

Let’s think through this. The first two rules are pretty straightforward. Avoiding wine makes sense—alcohol can dull the senses and cloud judgment, and Judaism places a strong emphasis on self-control, especially when it comes to spiritual matters. According to Jewish law, someone who is drunk isn’t even allowed to pray, and a Kohen can’t serve in the Temple if he’s had wine. So if a person is trying to get closer to G-d, the last thing they need is something that makes them lose control.

The second restriction is also understandable. Death, in Jewish tradition, brings a certain spiritual impurity. G-d is the Source of life, and a Nazir is trying to connect with that Divine source. As the Torah says, “And you who cleave to the L-rd your G-d, you are all alive today.” So staying away from death and impurity aligns perfectly with the Nazir’s spiritual goals.

But what about the hair?

The Torah says that a Nazir must “let the hair of his head grow long.” No haircuts allowed. But why? What’s the connection between hair and holiness? Isn’t long, wild hair often associated with vanity, superficiality, or even neglect?

In fact, Chassidim traditionally take care not to grow long hair, precisely because it can be a sign of self-absorption or misplaced priorities. And it’s not just a Chassidic thing—Jewish kings were required to trim their hair daily to maintain a dignified, refined appearance. So if anything, you’d think that someone trying to elevate themselves spiritually should be even more careful with their grooming. You’d expect the Torah to say, “Cut your hair every day!”

But instead, the Nazir is told to grow it out, to let it go untamed. Why?

Nazirs in History

Some commentators suggest that the Nazir grows his hair as a sign of mourning. The Midrash even puts it this way: “The growing of hair is for the purpose of anguish and mourning… so that the evil inclination does not pounce upon him.” In other words, letting the hair grow wild is supposed to keep him in a somber, subdued state—less focused on vanity, more focused on humility and restraint.

But there’s a problem with that explanation. Mourning is exactly the thing the Nazir is not supposed to engage in. He’s not allowed to come near a dead body, even if it’s his closest relative. And if you think about it, mourning usually pulls a person inward—it’s heavy, sorrowful. Getting closer to G-d, by contrast, is meant to be a joyful, uplifting experience. So how can a Nazir be both in mourning and on a spiritual high at the same time? The logic doesn’t quite hold up.

Now, we also read about the Nazir in this week’s Haftarah.In this week’s Haftarah, we meet a woman who’s told by an angel that she’ll give birth to a special child. The angel tells her, “No razor shall come upon his head, for the child shall be a Nazir to G-d from the womb. And he will begin to save Israel from the Philistines.”

That child, of course, grew up to be Shimshon HaGibor—Samson the Mighty. And what was his defining feature? His hair. As long as he had his hair, he had supernatural strength. The moment it was cut off, his strength disappeared. So here again, we see that a Nazir’s power—his mission, even—is somehow wrapped up in the hair he doesn’t cut.

And he’s not the only one.

There’s another great figure in Jewish history who was also a Nazir from birth: Shmuel HaNavi, the prophet Samuel. His mother, Chana, had prayed for a child for years, and when she finally conceived, she promised to dedicate her son to G-d. “No blade shall touch his head,” she vowed. From that, the Sages learned that Shmuel was a lifelong Nazir.

Even in more recent times, there have been people who took on the vow of Nezirus. One of the most famous was Rabbi Yosef Rosen of Dvinsk—better known as the Rogachover Gaon. Born in 1858 in the Belarusian city of Rogachov, he was a legendary Torah genius, known for his vast and lightning-quick knowledge of every corner of the Talmud, Rambam, and beyond. He too let his hair grow long. People who saw him could immediately tell—this wasn’t someone who cut his hair.

So what’s going on here? Is hair a good thing or bad thing? 

G-d’s Message—In Your Hair

Let’s take a closer look at the word Nazir itself. In Hebrew, Nazir comes from the root neizer, which literally means a crown. And the Torah actually uses this exact language when describing the Nazir. It says he must avoid contact with the dead, “because the neizer of his G-d is upon his head.” In other words, the Nazir’s long hair—usually seen as unruly or even unattractive—is referred to in the Torah as nothing less than G-d’s crown on his head.

That’s a pretty powerful image. But it raises a big question: How does hair suddenly become a “crown of G-d”? What makes hair so holy?

The Tanya (chapter 35) gives us a hint. It quotes a statement from Rav Hamnuna, who says a person shouldn’t walk more than four cubits (about six feet) without covering their head—because the Shechina, the Divine Presence, rests above it. In other words, there’s a constant spiritual energy hovering right above every Jew’s head. And what’s physically located in that space? The hair.

The Midrash takes it even further. It says that while G-d spoke to Moshe from between the staves of the Holy Ark, sometimes, G-d also speaks “from between the hairs of a person’s head.”

This is why the Nazir’s hair is called “the neizer of his G-d.” It’s not just a symbol. It’s where the Shechina resides during this special time in his life. And when the Nazir finishes his term and cuts his hair, the Torah requires him to bring a korban, a sacrifice. Why? Because he’s shaving off something sacred. He’s removing the place where the Shechina dwelled—and so he brings an offering to mark the moment and atone for stepping back from that elevated state.

The Rebbe explains in a maamar from the year 5748 (V’nikdashti), that holiness is connected to hair because it comes down in a condensed form, like through narrow channels—like hair. That’s why the Nazir lets his hair grow—it represents a kind of spiritual flow coming down into the world.

And maybe that’s also part of the reason why we have the custom not to cut a Jewish boy’s hair until he turns three—the upsherinish. What’s the idea? Until age three, he’s like a little Nazir. Just like Shmuel HaNavi was dedicated to G-d by his mother and didn’t have his hair cut, we also hold off on cutting a boy’s hair until he’s ready to start learning Torah and doing mitzvos.

With girls, it’s even more spiritual. Girls don’t cut their hair at all, even after age three. So you could say the connection to holiness is even more visible with them—and besides, women are generally considered more naturally connected to G-d to begin with.

This is the inner reason why there’s such an obsession with hair—because deep inside, people want to feel the Divine Presence.