August 23, 2005

Hair

By my early forties, I knew it was inevitable. My mom’s genes were systematically removing my elegant and carefully coiffed head of hair, one strand at a time. It was not even much comfort to know that God was keeping track (Lk 12.7a). I’d have preferred he spent his time with something more vital to peace and justice and the like. So, if he was of no avail (I didn’t much think it was worth trying to convince him to change), I decided to try, instead, the comb-over.

That was a mistake from the beginning, but I was the poster child for denial even of what I could see in the mirror, on the floor, and on my hair brush. So comb-over, I did, only to discover I was suddenly spending very little time outdoors on windy days.

Years later, but never too late, I got into a 12-step program and ran head-on (the appropriate contact point) into honesty. Not the hair! I thought, please not the hair. But having it trimmed one time, I said to my lady barber that one day, I would simply have to stop (aka cut off) the masquerade. I knew I wasn’t fooling anybody but me.

She said, that’s right, so either do it or stop talking about it. I asked had I been talking about it? She said, every time you come in, I’ve lost count of the years. She was good. She had a lot more time in the program than I. So I gritted my teeth and said, do it.

It only took a couple of major snips and off it went, straight to the floor and under foot. I said, aren’t you going to save it in an envelope? She ground it in just to make sure it was under foot and that I knew it.

Suddenly pleased was I by the joy of it if not by the sight of it. I was working on the third step at the time, the one about turning over my will and my life. So when I added my hair, I was downright refreshed by the memory that if God insisted on keeping track of it, he now had more time for the really important stuff.

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