Once in the town of Hoboken there lived a boy named Chezki who was bad at dating. It wasn’t so much that Chezki was bad at the dating process. He was handsome, he was charming, he was a good conversationalist, and he always found creative places to take his prospects. Women generally liked him. The problem was that he could never close the deal. Anytime the situation started to get serious with a female, Chezki would always find fault with her and would end the relationship.

Frumit wasn’t smart enough.

Bracha laughed like a horse.

Yocheved slurped her soup.

Mushke wore too much makeup.

Chaya never wore makeup at all.

Gittel never stopped talking.

Shenshi barely spoke at all.

Chezki usually ended the relationship after three or four dates, much to the puzzlement of the women involved. They usually thought it had been going well. But since Chezki was charming and well spoken, his dates usually left with no hard feelings.

Chezki’s parents started to worry about his chances of ever getting married. It was true that his mother thought he was quite close to perfect and that perhaps there was no girl out there who could possibly be good enough for her Chezki, but still, he was 24 and still single. He clearly wasn’t getting any younger.

All this changed when Chezki met Fayge. They had been set up by Chezki’s cousin Shoshana Beyla. Shoshi guaranteed Chezki that her roommate Fayge was special, and from the moment they met at the Chinese restaurant Chezki knew Shoshi hadn’t lied. Fayge had poise. She had personality. She had a good sense of humor. Her table manners were impeccable. She had a certain natural grace. She was drop-dead gorgeous.

And therein lay the problem. She was just too beautiful. Chezki just couldn’t seem to get past her perfect appearance. He started to worry that maybe he liked her only for her looks. True, she had many other positive qualities. But maybe he couldn’t appreciate them because he was too dazzled by her beauty.

As the couple reached their fifth date, Chezki’s mother started to check out caterers and wedding halls. At other people’s smachot she started taking notes on the orchestras (Neshama had a nice lead singer, Negina had an excellent keyboard player, and Nashir had a drummer with a good beat and perfect hair). By the eighth date she had designed the invitations in her mind. Still, she could sense something was holding Chezki back.

“Nu, Chezki, what gives?” his mother asked him when she cornered him in the hallway one day. “When will we be hearing some besorot tovot, some good news, from you and Fayge? I’ve already picked out the plate I plan to break at the tena’im.”

“I don’t know, Ma,”Chezki said. “I think she’s just too pretty for someone like me. I’m not sure it’s going to work out.”

“Oh no, not this time!” Chezki’s mother bellowed. “This time we’re seeking professional help.”

Without further ado, Chezki was sent to consult the Chochom of Hasbrouck Heights. The Chochom was renowned for his great wisdom, especially in affairs of the heart. And although he was a man of few words (no one had ever seen him speak in public), many relationships had worked out for the better thanks to his sage advice.

Chezki rang the doorbell at the Chochom’s house, and his wife, the Chochoma, answered the door. She was a small woman, perhaps four-foot-eight in heels, but she had a strong voice, and her eyes had a certain spark. The Chochoma greeted Chezki warmly and escorted him to meet her husband.

The Chochom was sitting at the kitchen table studying the Talmud. He seemed to be a tall thin man, though it was hard to tell since he never stood up. He looked up and smiled at Chezki and then went back to his text. Chezki waited for him to speak, but he did not.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” the Chochoma asked.

“Thank you, that would be most kind,” Chezki said.

“Hershel, the usual?” she asked the Chochom.

The Chochom nodded in the affirmative.

Chezki listened to the clock tick on the wall until the tea was served. The Chochoma sat next to Chezki at the table.

“So, tell the Chochom your problem,” she said.

Chezki told his tale of woe to the Chocham. He spared no detail: the dates, the beauty, his hesitation. The Chocham continued to gaze at his Gemarah (Bava Batra).The Chochoma listened with rapt attention.

“The solution is simple,” the Chochoma said. “It’s so simple that I’ll tell you what to do and spare the Chochom the trouble. Is that okay with you, Hershel?”

The Chochom nodded again.

The Chochoma turned to Chezki and looked him in the eye. “You need to break the spell,” she said.

“What?” Chezki asked.

“You need to break the spell,” she repeated. You need to see this Fayge for who she truly is. No one is as beautiful as you seem to think this girl is. You have idealized her, and until you get over it, there’s no way for you to move on to the next phase of your relationship.”

“So then how do I break this spell?” Chezki asked.

“Well, it’s like the parsha of eyshet yefat to’ar in Parshat Ki Teyze. Surely you know the story,” the Chochoma said.

“Yes, yes,” Chezki said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But how does that relate to Fayge?”

“When the Jews were in the desert, Moshe Rabeinu tells them that if they go out to war against another nation, and a nice Jewish boy sees among his captives a beautiful, not-so-Jewish girl, he must shave her head, let her nails grow, and change her out of her attractive clothes and let her sit for a month before he can marry her.”

“Uh huh,” Chezki said.

“So that’s what you need to do. You need to see Fayge as a real person, not as some pretty bauble.”

“And how do I do that?”

“It’s easy,” the Chochoma said. “Go meet her mother.”

“Why?”

“Because in 20 years, that will be what Fayge looks like,” the Chochoma said. “That should sober you up.”

Thanking the Chochom for his wisdom and insight, Chezki finished his tea and went out to seek Fayge’s mother. A week later he returned to the Chochom for further counseling.

Once again the Chochom was immersed in his studies and the Chochoma acted as his mouthpiece.

“So what happened?” she asked.

“It’s no good,” Chezki said. “The mother is as radiant as the morning sun. A true beauty. I see no end to my suffering.”

“You poor Bubbe,” the Chochoma said. “I guess we’ll have to go to Plan B. It’s not going to be pretty, but it usually does the trick.”

“I know I’m going to be sorry I asked, but what’s Plan B?” Chezki inquired.

“You need to take a friend that you trust and go to Fayge’s house early in the morning, earlier than she usually gets up. Then you must wake her and see what she looks like before she has had any time to prepare. I believe this knowledge will set you free and allow you to see this woman as she truly is. Don’t you think so, Hershel?”

Hershel nodded in agreement.

Chezki was apprehensive. The whole idea seemed far-fetched, but if this was what the Chochom counseled, who was he to contradict such a wise man?

Chezki chose his friend Menachem to escort him on his early-morning mission. (Menachem also had dating issues, but that is the subject best saved for another story.) They davened at a 6 a.m. minyan and then went to Fayge’s apartment before 7. She was not due to leave for work until 8:30, so Chezki figured they would definitely catch her unprepared. He knocked on the door tentatively, but there was no response. Menachem sighed. If this had to be done, it had to be done right. He leaned over and rang the bell. It took more than a minute for anything to happen, but soon thereafter Chezki could hear someone starting to stir behind the door. Fayge and Shoshi appeared in robes wrapped over their pajamas. There was no question that they were unprepared for visitors.

“Chezki, what a surprise,” Fayge said, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

“Hi.”

“To what do I owe this early-morning pleasure?”

“Yes, do explain,” Shoshi added.

“I was just in your neighborhood with my friend Menachem, and I was thinking maybe you would want to catch a bite tonight at the new deli in West Orange.”

“Uh, sure, Chezki, that sounds fine,” Fayge said, a bit confused. “Why don’t you call me later?”

And she ever so politely closed the door in his face.

Chezki and Menachem walked back to Chezki’s car.

“That was pretty awful,” Chezki said.

“Yes, I must admit, that was bad,” Menachem agreed.

“And still we’ve learned nothing,” Chezki said. “She still looked beautiful. Not a hair out of place.”

Menachem stared at his friend. Fayge had been dressed in a ratty, old robe with holes in it. Her hair had been a bit wild, to say the least, and without her contact lenses she had been squinting at them like they were 100 yards away. A list of the other imperfections that Menachem had noted would be impolite to list.

“Chezki my friend, the Chochom of Hasbrouck Heights is a genius. I may not be a wise man, but I feel safe in suggesting that you should definitely marry this woman.”

“Why do you say that?” Chezki asked. “I have yet to get past her looks.”

“It’s just a hunch,” Menachem said. “And I only met her for a moment, but I feel safe in stating that for you, Fayge’s inner beauty is what is causing you to have trouble getting past her outer beauty. And if that’s the case, it will never fade.”

“Are you sure?”

“You can take it to the bank.”

And so Chezki continued to date Fayge, and their relationship ended in matrimony. Chezki’s mother chose Nashir for the orchestra, but the drummer with the perfect hair was otherwise engaged and they had to use someone else. All of life is a compromise.

By Larry Stiefel