It curled out from behind my ears and at the nape of my neck. The swoop in the front had gotten so long and heavy that it looked more emo than usual. It took more than thirty seconds to do in the morning. My hair needed to be cut. Normally, I figure this out then still wait several weeks before I’d actually go and get it done. Schedule and a lack of desire typically dictate the length of the waiting period. I have events and commitments going on four nights out of the week, then make plans the remaining three, but this isn’t about being busy so much as it’s about my haircut.
I’m not excessively particular about how I cut my hair. I don’t go to a salon and pay thirty dollars to have some lady massage my scalp and cut it just like the people at one of the large franchise stores would, so I go to the Fantastic Sam’s up the hill from my work. Tonight wasn’t any different. I called during lunch and made an appointment and when asked, “Who would you like to have cut your hair tonight?” I said, “I don’t know who any of you are. Whoever has time will be fine.”
I’ve never regretted this before, because it’s always the same kind of girl that works at this place. They don’t seem to hire anyone older than thirty-five, always have two or three kids and a husband that’s either a firefighter, or a cop. Tonight though, I walked through the door and sat in the lobby, waited for one of the girls to call my name but was surprised when a man did, instead. I’m not against men cutting hair, it’s just not terribly common in Idaho.
I looked up to see what Lurch from the Adams family might look like if he ended up in that wretched Hairspray movie… if Lurch was about seventy years old (For the record, I haven’t seen that movie, but I did see the previews and they were sufficient for me to make judgments). This man was very large, and had bleached hair with weird red bangs. He had a pink ribbon thing going with his apron and a large smile, too. I wanted to ask for someone else to cut my hair, because this man didn’t look like he was up for the job. BUT, I’m not the kind of person that would do that kind of thing. I couldn’t tell a waitress she couldn’t serve my table because she walked like she was drunk and I couldn’t tell a barista (baristo) that he couldn’t make my coffee because he looked dirty.
Certain situations don’t let us choose the people we get to play with.
It’s during these times that we say a little prayer and hope for the best.
After fifteen minutes and a shampoo, I paid the man and walked out with the same old haircut I always get. I want to say that deep down, I knew he wouldn’t jack me up, but he was ridiculous-looking enough, that it caused me to doubt. My only confidence was that it truly is only hair, and it grows back.
I suppose it wasn’t much different for the church when they got Peter. Jesus might have chosen him as a disciple, but there’s a darn good reason why he was a fisherman- he wasn’t a good Talmud student. I’m sure it was even worse when Paul showed up at gatherings, I bet people asked, “Why does HE have to be here?” but hearing about his dramatic salvation experience, they probably felt obligated to let him stay. And it turned out well, didn’t it? So maybe we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, or by whether or not it killed hundreds of Christians or cussed a lot, maybe we should look just a little deeper and see what God sees, or something cheesy like that.