I stood staring at my image in the mirror. Thoughts began running through my mind – this can’t be happening to me…don’t worry it will grow back…why was I so stupid to say yes…Easter is just a week away…I have stubs for bangs.
That’s when I heard a trembling voice from my kitchen shakily call out, “How do you like it?”
How do I like it? My long side-swept bangs are now half inch nubs standing at attention and the rest of the choppy crop is hanging wildly around my face. Let’s see, it’s not exactly going to make the cover of best cuts in 08’, but it may find its’ way to the compilation of world’s worst hairdos.
I love it. HA!
At this moment, I realized just how much I’d sacrificed to be a “good pastor’s wife”. I must have been in the midst of a psychotic episode when I agreed to allow this woman, a church member, to cut my hair.
She used to be a hairdresser she told me. She cuts people’s hair all the time. She’d love to use her talent to bless me.
Oh, indeed! Bless me she did.
I should have listened to that still, small voice inside me screaming out in terror as she began snipping my locks. Her hands shook more violently than my washing machine on its’ spin cycle. Her mouth sporadically stammered out words incohesively attempting to link bizarre thoughts with each slice of the scissor. I knew deep in the pit of my stomach that I was in BIG trouble, but naively I convinced myself I’d get through the ordeal unscathed.
Post Traumatic Stress disorder would be an accurate diagnosis of my trauma. (Yes, I’m still professionally self-diagnosing.)
Finally I managed to pull my thoughts together, wipe a tear from eye, and squeak, “The bangs are a little short.”
As the last word left my mouth, floating hesitantly out of the bathroom toward the kitchen, I heard my husband spit coffee out of his mouth and I’m sure (from the sound of things) through his nose in a combination cough/choke/laugh.
Spontaneously I began to laugh. Not the kind of laughter that comes from humor or silliness, but the deep, heartfelt kind that comes from regret.
In an effort to be a good pastor’s wife, to support the struggling women in our congregation, and to bless another human soul, I’d sunk to self-deprecation. I’d allowed a tremor ridden, ex-beautician to cut my hair – my crown and glory of all things.
This was certainly more than the good Lord expected of me.
Reduced to raiding my daughter’s barrettes (you see I needed small clips, baby clips), I ended up wearing a rainbow of clasps across my entire forehead. The fence of my former bangs clipped down with the tiniest of butterflies. (My forehead, by the way, is the size of a small dinner plate.)
I wish I could say it grew in for Easter (since I used Miracle Grow 3x’s a day). I wish I could say I could camouflage the spikes pointing heavenward. (Oddly, I resembled Lady Liberty wearing her crown.) I wish I could say I forgave this woman with the same grace the Lord extended to me. I wish I could say it was worth saving twenty bucks; however, I cannot.
I did learn one lesson, albeit the hard way. NEVER, EVER let a woman in your church cut your hair. It’s my policy now. It’s written into my husband’s contract.
I’ll never forget my first Sunday in church after the scissor incident. I mustered all my courage (wore a pretty dress), held my head high (applied extra makeup), and strolled into the sanctuary as if I’d purposely chosen to have a weed wacker style my hair.
All eyes riveted on my forehead (I’m sure it was shine) when a “friend” of mine blurted, “Am I glad she cut yours first.”
I wish I had a picture (I know you think I’m exaggerating), but at the time I wasn’t emotionally strong enough to digitally archive my tragedy.