I want to share with you a chidush that absolutely stunned me. The Pasuk tells us about Yosef: “Vehu na’ar—He was a youth.” Rashi immediately asks the obvious question: Why is he being called a na’ar, an immature lad, if he is already seventeen years old?
Rashi answers: Because Yosef was engaged in “ma’aseh na’arut,” youthful behavior. What exactly does that mean? Rashi specifies: “Hayah mesalsel b’sa’aro—He was curling his hair.”
Yosef HaTzaddik, the future viceroy of Egypt, the visionary dreamer, the man destined to sustain the entire world during famine was fidgeting with his hair like a teenager in front of a mirror. He was fixing it, arranging it, playing with the curls. And from the Torah’s perspective, this was unbecoming for someone on his spiritual level.
Rashi’s explanation always bothered me. The Torah is making a point that Yosef is acting immaturely, but the very next Pasuk tells us Yosef is receiving prophetic dreams. How do these two things coexist? Is Hashem really appearing to someone who’s sitting there fussing over his hairstyle? The image is almost comical. How do you go from a hair salon moment to nevuah?
This contradiction troubled me for years, until I saw an insight from Reb Simcha Bunim of Peshischa that reframed the entire issue.
Reb Simcha Bunim points to the laws of the Parah Adumah. The Torah states that the red heifer must be tamim—perfect, without blemish. Even the smallest physical defect invalidates it. But interestingly, hair is treated differently. A single black hair does not invalidate the Parah Adumah. Two black hairs, however, do.
Why this discrepancy?
Reb Simcha Bunim explains. When it comes to ordinary wholeness—completeness for the average person—Hashem does not demand absolute perfection. A person does their best; Hashem calls them righteous.
But regarding tzaddikim, Chazal teach: “Hakadosh Baruch Hu is meticulous with tzaddikim kechut ha’sa’arah, even to the width of a single hair” (Yevamos 121b). For the average Jew, one stray spiritual imperfection is not disqualifying. For a tzaddik striving for absolute purity, even a “hair,” the smallest detail, matters.
With this, Reb Simcha Bunim says something beautiful. Yosef was not curling his hair out of vanity. He was examining himself with relentless precision, striving for the level of a tzaddik whose perfection is measured “like a strand of hair.”
“Mesalsel b’sa’aro” is symbolic. He was scrutinizing the tiny “hairs,” the small subtleties of spiritual refinement. Yosef wasn’t being childish; he was aiming for the exacting spiritual standard appropriate to his destiny.
Our Sages teach that the Jewish future has two messianic figures: Mashiach ben Yosef, who prepares the world for Mashiach and, Mashiach ben David, who completes the redemption. Why two? And why can Yosef not be the final redeemer?
My rebbe explained that the spiritual personality of Yosef is unrelatable to most Jews. Yosef embodies flawlessness, the tzaddik who never sins, the spiritual foundation of the world (Tzaddik Yesod Olam). He resists the wife of Potiphar under impossible temptation and maintains purity in exile. He rises without ever falling. But Yehuda? Yehuda represents the Jew who fails, acknowledges failure, and transforms through teshuvah.
Tamar confronts him, and he admits, “Tzadkah mimeni—She is right; I was wrong.” His greatness emerges from his courage to own his mistake. And that is why Mashiach ben David, not Yosef, completes the redemption. Because who can be redeemed by a figure of perfection if we ourselves are not perfect? Who among us can identify with never having erred, never having stumbled, never having given in to desire or weakness?
Mashiach ben Yosef begins the process. He inspires. He elevates the tzaddikim. But Mashiach ben David, descendant of Yehuda, descendant of one who fell and rose redeems the entire nation. He speaks the spiritual language of the struggling Jew, the imperfect Jew, the growing Jew. Yosef teaches us what it means to strive for perfection and to inspect the “hairs,” the tiniest refinements. Yehuda teaches us that greatness is not the absence of mistakes but the courage to admit them.
If Yosef embodies abstinence from sin to an extreme, if he represents flawless purity, then we understand on a deeper level what it means that he was “mesalsel b’sa’aro.” Yes, physically he might have ensured not a single hair was out of place; but spiritually, he was striving for the level where even one hair’s breadth—kechut ha’sa’arah—matters.
But if that is so, the question remains. If Yosef’s obsession was not vanity but spiritual aspiration, then why does the Torah call him “na’ar,” a young, immature boy?
For Yosef, the pursuit of perfection would indeed become his life’s mission. But sometimes, the right goal pursued at the wrong moment becomes the wrong goal entirely. Yosef, at seventeen, was still forming his identity. To demand perfection of himself at that age, and more critically, to expect it of others, was the hubris of youth.
Look at how he interacts with his brothers. He shares dreams of dominance which imply, rather straightforwardly, “I will rule over you.” And what does he expect? That they respond: “Oh, that’s wonderful, Yosef! We’re thrilled! Everyone in favor, say aye!”
Did he really imagine they would swallow that? Why not? Because vehu na’ar. In his chase for perfection, Yosef was still immature. He did not yet understand that this is not the conversation you have at seventeen. Maybe at seventy. Maybe as an elder, seasoned, respected leader. But not now.
And here lies the great danger of the perfectionist. Be a perfectionist for yourself if you wish, but the moment you demand your perfection from others, you burn everyone around you. The only reason some perfectionists’ homes are not military boot camps is because they married someone who brings joy into the home. But they often fail to recognize that gift. Yosef held his brothers to a standard they were not ready for, and that, the Torah tells us, was ma’aseh na’arut.
Yosef was trying to chart a path toward perfection for his brothers. That was noble. But expecting them to already be on that path—that was immature.
A parent asks a child, “Why didn’t you think this through?” Because he’s a child. It says so right in his job description. His job is to drive you crazy. A rebbe demands absolute silence for five hours. That’s not chinuch; that’s a pet rock.
A synagogue wants more people to come. Wonderful! But then they complain the newcomers aren’t on the same religious level. Phones ring, children make noise, someone sits in the wrong seat—and suddenly, the community that prayed for growth resents the very growth it asked for. I often ask people: If your grandfather had been told, “Don’t come to shul until you keep Shabbos perfectly,” Would you be here today?
So why deny others the journey you yourself were allowed to walk? Chart a path for them? Absolutely. Expect them to already be advanced on that path? That is ma’aseh na’arut.
Someone once told me, “Rabbi, but this man is older. He should know better.” No. Jewish maturity isn’t measured by chronological age. You may be 20, but born into a home steeped in Torah for 50 years. You’re not 20; you’re spiritually 70. Another person, by contrast, may be 60, but Jewishly, he is one year old. So who is truly the na’ar?
May Hashem bless us to chart a path toward spiritual perfection with patience, compassion and realism. And may we encourage others to grow at a pace that is healthy, gentle and respectful.
