Snip

If you know me, really know me… then you would know that I have priorities. And these priorities are basically the framework for my life. My priorities are—and in no particular order—family, the gospel, and hair… but especially hair.

When I get the thought that I need a haircut—it must be done. It becomes an obsession. It is all-consuming. The problem is that I’ve been trying to grow my hair out. And I’ve been doing a great job. My locks almost reached bra-strap length… which in my world is billowing. But then I got the itch.

In most moments of weakness (such as this) I would just call my sponsor (my mom). I’d tell her that I was about to falter and she would lovingly, but firmly, talk me out of it. But this week my mom was in Europe and unreachable. So I blame her completely for the haircut.

I gave the hairdresser what I thought was pretty good direction. I pointed to the picture and said “I want this haircut exactly.” Then, in case she had cataracts or over-dilated pupils, I verbally outlined exactly what expected from this haircut.

Snip snip snip. I could tell that she was doing it all wrong but it was too late—the damage had already been done.

I looked down at the piles of my once luxurious hair. At first I was glad to be rid of it. I felt like shouting “I’m free! I’m free!” and running naked around the salon. But then I looked in the mirror. This woman, this so-called stylist, had stripped me of all that was feminine. She had maimed me. She had given me “the mom haircut.”

“I love it. Thank you,” I said and gave her a generous tip. I got in the car and cursed my mother.