The Shaggy Son

If Esau got the blessing, would we look like goats today?

In the sun-scorched hills of Canaan, where the tents of Isaac’s clan stood like stubborn sentinels against the wind, Esau was born different. From his first cry, his skin bore a mantle of thick, dark hair, so dense it seemed the shadow of a beast clung to him. His mother, Rebekah, marveled at the infant, whose arms and neck were cloaked in coarse strands, black as a raven’s wing, curling tightly like the fleece of a wild goat. By the time Esau was a man, his hairiness was the talk of every shepherd and trader from Beersheba to Hebron. They called him “the Shaggy Son,” a hunter whose very presence startled the goats he stalked, as if they sensed a kin in him.


Esau’s hair was no mere fuzz. It grew in a thick pelt across his broad shoulders, down his sinewy arms, and over the backs of his hands, where it stood nearly a finger’s breadth long, wiry and matted from years under the sun. Each strand was coarse, thicker than a man’s beard, and so densely packed—hundreds in a single hand’s span—that his skin was barely visible beneath. When he returned from his hunts, his father, Isaac, now blind with age, would run trembling hands over Esau’s wrists, chuckling, “My son, you feel more goat than man!” Esau would laugh, his deep voice rumbling, unaware of the weight those words would one day carry.


Jacob, his twin, was the opposite—smooth as polished stone, his skin kissed by the shade of the tents where he lingered, tending flocks and cooking lentils. The brothers’ differences were a constant jest in the camp, but Rebekah saw deeper. She knew the prophecy given at their birth: the elder would serve the younger. And so, when Isaac, frail and sightless, declared it was time to bestow his blessing on Esau, Rebekah’s mind turned to cunning.


“Jacob,” she whispered one dusk, as the firelight danced in her eyes, “your father’s blessing is yours by right. But Isaac will know you by touch. Esau’s hair is his mark, and we must match it.”


Jacob frowned, his smooth fingers tracing his own arm. “Mother, even if I wear Esau’s robes, my skin betrays me. Father will feel the difference and curse me instead.”


Rebekah’s gaze fell on the fresh goatskin draped over a stool, its coarse hair still clinging to the hide. She smiled. “Not if we make you Esau.”


She set to work with a weaver’s precision, cutting strips of the kid’s hide—soft yet bristly, its dark hairs mimicking the wild texture of Esau’s own. The goatskin was dense, each patch thick with wiry strands, not unlike the pelt that cloaked her elder son. Rebekah bound the strips to Jacob’s hands and forearms, wrapping them tightly, then draped another across his neck, securing it with cords hidden beneath Esau’s best robe. She stepped back, inspecting her work. In the dim light, Jacob’s hands looked foreign, shaggy, and rough, as if Esau himself stood before her.


“Go to your father,” she said, her voice steady. “Speak softly, move boldly, and the blessing is yours.”


Jacob hesitated, feeling the weight of the deception. The goatskin itched against his skin, its coarse hairs prickling like a field of thorns. But he trusted his mother and stepped into Isaac’s tent, where the old man lay on a bed of woven rugs, his eyes milky and unseeing.


“Father,” Jacob said, deepening his voice to mimic Esau’s growl, “I am Esau, your firstborn. I have done as you asked. Sit and eat of my game, and bless me.”


Isaac stirred, his brow furrowing. “So soon, my son? Come near, let me feel you.”


Jacob’s heart pounded as he knelt beside his father. Isaac’s trembling hands reached out, brushing over the goatskin on Jacob’s wrists. The old man’s fingers lingered, tracing the dense, wiry strands. They were thick, matted, and coarse, just as he remembered Esau’s hands from countless hunts. Isaac’s touch moved to Jacob’s neck, where the goatskin lay snug, its texture blending seamlessly with the memory of his shaggy son. A faint smile crossed Isaac’s face, though doubt lingered in his voice.


“The voice is Jacob’s,” he murmured, “but the hands… the hands are Esau’s.” He leaned closer, inhaling the scent of Esau’s robe, mingled with the earthy musk of the goatskin. “Yes, my son, you are Esau.”


Jacob held his breath as Isaac ate the stew, prepared by Rebekah to mimic Esau’s game. The blessing followed—a sacred promise of prosperity and dominion, poured out in Isaac’s quavering voice. When it was done, Jacob slipped away, the goatskin still clinging to his skin, his heart racing with triumph and guilt.


Hours later, Esau returned, his own hands—truly shaggy, a living echo of the goatskin—carrying the spoils of his hunt. When Isaac realized the deception, his cry shook the tent. “Who was it, then, that brought me the meal? I felt him, his hands like yours, thick with hair! I blessed him, and he will be blessed!”


Esau’s roar of anguish echoed across the hills, but the blessing was gone. The Shaggy Son, whose very body had been his mark, was undone by a mother’s wit and a goatskin’s mimicry. And in the tents of Isaac, the tale of Esau’s hair—coarse as a goat’s, wild as the desert—became a legend, whispered by shepherds for generations.