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Big Hairy Deal
We all have aspects of our appearance that we’re comfortable with and other things we are self-conscious about. For me, teeth fit into the first category, hair the second. I was born with thin, fine, stick straight brown hair. No amount of curling, coating, fluffing or fixing has ever achieved a look that allows me to walk confidently into the world. Even my baby pictures show me wearing hats.
This is where a true friend comes in. A friend consoles with reassurance that it’s not as bad as it seems and they help put things in perspective. I have just such a friend, Nina Lee, my best friend in the whole world. I wish everyone could have a friend like her. She offers empathy, and when she feels it’s called for, sympathy.
Early in our friendship, as we talked on the phone, Nina Lee sensed that all was not well and asked if anything was wrong. I broke down and sobbed about getting the worst haircut of my life, just before an important speaking engagement.
“Oh your poor darling,” Nina Lee said, with real feeling, soothing my sorrow. Mercifully, she didn’t say what my mother always told me, “It’s only hair. It will grow back.”
Fast forward a year or two from Nina Lee’s understanding remark. I was again reporting my haircut woes on the telephone when she exercised another friendship quality. With both kindness and backbone she said, “They can’t all be the worst haircut of your life, Joanne.
This was a moment of truth. In a flash I realized she was right, haircut complaints had become a pattern. Every haircut couldn’t be the worst one in my life, even if it felt that way at the time. When I took time to reflect on my reaction, I was able to trace my problem back to an experience when I was 13 years old, just before a big dance. My mother took be to the local beauty school for the “bubble cut” all the girls were wearing. Even cemented in a cloud of hairspray, my hair looked like a soup bowl turned upside down. That was the start of my dread of hairdressers.
When I turn back the years even further, I recall an even worse haircut, in the days I was a carefree child, before I became so self- conscious about my hair. It didn’t start off as a haircut, that came later, by accident. It happened around Christmas when I was seven years old. My dad’s sister, my aunt Corrie, invited me to spend the night at her apartment. When Dad dropped me off Saturday night, I guess he expected to see me looking like the same girl when he picked me up Sunday afternoon. That didn’t happen.
Corrie decided that curls would perk up my appearance. I was wearing my hair in two pony tails, one above each ear, held in place by two rubber bands. Out came the rubber bands. She brushed my hair and decided that a Toni perm would make me look adorable, like the little girl on the box. She rolled my hair in tiny slips of paper on plastic curling rods and squirted smelly liquid on top.
Then Corrie opened a beer, lit a cigarette and turned up the radio. To pass the time while we waited for the curls to appear, she painted my fingernails with her scarlet polish, singing along as she added my toes.
While Corrie talked on the phone, I jiggled one of my loose front teeth. When it was almost out I gave a tug and out it came–along with a big spurt of blood. What with the wet wash cloth, the ice and cleaning up the blood, we forgot all about my curls.
Corrie tucked me for the night on the couch in the living room. My tooth was waiting for the Tooth Fairy under a shiny fringed pillow that said “Niagara Falls.” I guess the fairy couldn’t find me because I was at someone else’s house, it was still there in the morning.
When we woke up Corrie tried to unroll the tangled curlers, but they wouldn’t budge. She had to cut them out of my hair leaving me with odd looking fuzz where my pony tails used to be.
“Your manicure looks great,” Corrie said, taking a sip of her coffee. I agreed, sipping my coffee.
As we waited for Dad to pick me up, I started fussing with the other loose front tooth. Just as we heard his footsteps on the stairs, my tooth popped out, and just like the other one blood spurted out. As he walked in the door Dad stopped short.
I rushed to the door, holding up my tooth. “Look Daddy!”
“What in the blazes…?” He said, running his fingers through his dark wavy hair.
There I stood with blood dripping onto my shirt, my two front teeth missing, fingernails a flaming red, and without exaggeration–the absolutely worst haircut of my life.
This is Christmas week. In two days I am leading the Christmas Eve worship service at church. When I look in the mirror at the short haystack on my head that wants to stick out in all directions, I am tempted to pronounce my recent haircut with the old phrase. I stop as I hear two women’s voices in my mind. Nina Lee is helping me keep this in perspective with her gentle reminder, “They can’t all be the worst haircut of your life, Joanne.” Mom, who always liked to have the last word, chimes in cheerfully, “It’s only hair. It will grow back.” They’re right. It’s a bad haircut, but compared to at least two others I can think of, this is no big hairy deal.
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