A Haircut, Control and The Master Stylist
Okay. I admit that my hair is my security blanket.
Like most women, I feel better when my coif is just how I like it. If you’re a woman and you’re reading this, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. Men, if you’re married … you might get it, too. Single men, you might not understand. Unless you grew up with sisters.
But back to me and my hair. Here’s how I like it:
- Should be cut a little longer, so that when it’s dry the waves won’t spring up to qualify me as the next bound-for-Broadway “Annie” hopeful.
- Shouldn’t have a lot of product on it, or there will be some gross, gunky build-up behind my ears. Ewww.
- Shouldn’t be too "in place" so it looks as if one tried too hard in styling. Which actually takes MORE styling to achieve, now that I think about it.
- Should have a natural, almost perfect-match hair color to hide any stray grays. Preferably, ammonia free.
- Shouldn’t be washed every day as to let the natural oils do their thing. And to prevent the dreaded “straw effect.”
Yes, it’s a little high-maintenance to be a woman. And with all of these expectations and quality-control perimeters that I have set for my own bouncin’ and behavin' 'do, you can just imagine the horror (quelle horreur!!!) I experienced two weeks ago when I thought I got a bad haircut.
Keyword here is thought.
Because at the time, I was not happy. Nosireebob. What I saw was not what I had wanted or planned for or asked for. And let me tell you: if a woman ain’t happy about her hair … well … ain’t NOBODY happy.
You see, my normally exceptionally brilliant hairstylist apparently took a mental lunch break when brandishing the shears. While we did discuss the length (“How about you take off an inch … yeah, it IS getting a bit long-ish.”), I now know that I should have subtracted half an inch and also clarified that I wanted “the same haircut” and “only a trim.”
What I got instead is a completely different coif that is now two inches shorter and looks different than my former ‘do.
Denial. Realization. Tears. Anger. And finally … calculation.
Yes, in times like this, a gal will usually take matters into her own hands. Literally. Especially if you’re like me, and you’re not afraid of the household scissors or the word “fixin.”
A snip here, a snip there. Fuss and fume. Wash, rinse, repeat. Restyle. Snip some more. Groan and gnash. Surrender. Call the hair stylist, and ask her to fix it.
I did all of the above. But I had to wait about four days until I heard back, because it was during the holidays and my stylist was on vacation.
But here’s the thing: something very interesting happened during that lull. I had time to think and get some perspective. And you know what? My attitude changed! I realized that the ‘do was actually a good thing. And that I … gulp … actually LIKED it.
Okay, male readers … at this point you’re probably thinking: Woman, get over your hair. Get a grip! And I agree with you. I did need to get over it. But, I suppose it’s no different than when a man’s favorite sports team loses. He might be in a “sports funk” for a few days or so. Because what he thought should have happened didn’t happen. And now his world is turned upside down. And his attitude has been affected. But not that I’m talking about YOU in particular … but maybe some people you know. Ahem.
Likewise can it be with women and their hair. We can have a “funk,” too. And after going through my own, when I realized how something as trivial as my hair—and my CONTROL over my hair—affected me and my attitude, well I just had to laugh and thank the Lord that He still loves a selfish, stubborn and wayward child like myself.
Just like I try to do with my hair, I try to control every area of my life. I try to control what will or won’t happen to me, so that I won’t get hurt. So that I’ll feel good. So that people won’t get in the way. And so that my life will go perfectly according to my plan.
Thankfully, as symbolized in my hair tale, the Master Stylist ultimately knows what is best for me. God doesn’t need me to get out my household scissors and snip here and there to make adjustments and "help" him out. And I don’t need to try and make everything look differently with my own control care products.
He's got the big-daddy, professional shears and a custom design for my life. He can see the 360-degree view so much better than me and knows what will suit me best. How can I NOT look better after time spent in his “chair” and in his presence?
So now—sharpened with that brilliant insight—if I can just relax, loosen the tightly-tied smock that’s choking my neck and resist the urge to keep checking in the mirror and do my own trimming, then maybe I can hold on to this new attitude about life. And about my hair.
Well, at least ‘til my next appointment. Check back in 10 weeks.