Matzav Inbox: The Shtreimel Clown Show
Dear Matzav Inbox,
There was a time when a shtreimel was a symbol of dignity and inherited mesorah. It sat on a head quietly, without screaming for attention, without demanding applause, without turning its wearer into a walking spectacle. That time, apparently, has passed.
Somewhere along the line, subtlety was declared obsolete, and excess crowned itself king—quite literally.
Shtreimels are getting taller, wider, and more absurd by the year. What once rested respectfully atop a head now looms overhead like an architectural project gone rogue. It is no longer headwear. It is a statement piece. And the statement is deeply embarrassing. It’s a busha. And I say that as the wearer of a shtreimel – a normal one.
Do the wearers realize how clownish they look? Or is that awareness drowned out by the applause of a society that has confused ostentation with chashivus?
Let us stop pretending this is about mesorah. Our grandfathers did not parade around with fur towers balanced precariously above their ears. They did not need height to signal worth. Their dignity came from who they were, not from how much fur they could stack on their skulls. The shtreimel was never meant to compete with skyscrapers.
And yet, here we are, locked in a silent but vicious arms race: taller than his, wider than theirs. A grotesque one-upmanship that masquerades as chassidishe refinement. If the goal is to look ridiculous, mission accomplished. If the goal is to honor mesorah, we have veered wildly off course.
Worse still is the money. The staggering sums being poured into these monstrosities would make even the most hardened fundraiser blush. Thousands of dollars—sometimes more—spent not on chinuch, not on helping struggling families, not on communal needs, but on looking like an overgrown cartoon character. And for what? To stand out in a crowd that should be running in the opposite direction?
We live in a generation crushed by tuition, suffocated by housing costs, strangled by simcha expenses. Families are drowning quietly, cutting corners, juggling debts, pretending everything is fine. And in the middle of this, we normalize the idea that a man must place an ever-expanding fur monument on his head to be taken seriously.
What message does this send to our children? That image matters more than substance? That dignity is measured in inches? That Torah values are best expressed through theatrical excess?
This is not hiddur mitzvah. This is vanity dressed up as piety. This is insecurity wrapped in sable. This is a costume contest that no one had the courage to shut down before it spiraled into parody.
And yes, someone needs to say it plainly: It looks ridiculous. It invites mockery. It cheapens what was once noble. It turns something meaningful into a joke — and we are the punchline.
Yiddishkeit has survived because our zeides and bubbes knew when to hold firm and when to rein things in. Not every escalation is growth. Not every “more” is better. Sometimes, more is just more….and sometimes more is grotesque.
It is long past time to ask ourselves an uncomfortable question: Are we honoring our minhagim or are we inflating them until they collapse under their own weight?
Because if we continue down this path, the only thing that will keep growing faster than the shtreimels themselves is the embarrassment they bring upon us.
And let us be brutally honest about the final, uncomfortable truth: No one looks at these towering shtreimels and thinks “yiras Shamayim.” They think excess. They think insecurity. They think parody. What was once meant to humble a man before the Eibishter now elevates his ego several inches above everyone else in the room. We have taken an article of kedusha and turned it into a grotesque measuring stick of status, where taller means “more,” and “more” means “better.” That is not avodas Hashem. That is theater. And if we do not stop congratulating ourselves for it, we will wake up one day and realize that in our frantic race to look holier, we have succeeded only in making ourselves look foolish—before the world, before our children, and worst of all, before the Ribbono Shel Olam Himself.
Running for Cover
New York
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