Bangs! Not a big deal for most people. I am not most people. I have a humongous collic.
It separates my bangs like warm gravy from the fat.
I sat in my hairdresser's chair several weeks ago.
"What do you want?" Chris asked.
After a busy day of teaching children, I felt brain dead. I couldn't think.
"Do you want a highlight or more brown pulled through your hair?"
Once again I stared at Chris with the stare of my daughters when I ask them if they've gotten their chores done.
I began, "I don't feel like deciding. You're the professional. Do what you think."
After saying that, I immediately felt relief which quickly turned to fear.
Chris looked intently at my big forehead, "I say let's do some heavy bangs and trim the rest."
"Bangs? I can't have bangs. I have a collic, remember?" I asked.
"You can't do wispy bangs. You can do heavy bangs," Chris said.
"Wow...I thought I couldn't have bangs."
Chris began adding color through my hair. She rinsed it. Then asked me to go back to my styling seat. As I sat down, I glanced in the mirror.
Fear! Fear! Fear...pulsated through my being.
What if she cuts my bangs and I don't like them? What if I don't know what to do with them? What if they look horrible? I glanced in the mirror at my ever-present, growing larger by the second, forehead. I hate my big forehead! What if I hate my bangs more?
Chris nonchalantly picked up her scissors and brought them to my hair. She looked calm and knowledgeable. Could she not tell I was starting to sweat like I did in Freshman Speech?
She pulled up a small segment of hair. Her scissors opened. It was like the slow motion in a movie before something dramatic happens.
"I'm scared!" I shouted, clutching her hand with the scissors.
Embarrassment spread like icing on a warm cake.
I looked around. Everyone was looking at me. Chris looked intently and questioningly at me.
Chris smiled, holding back what surely must be a full-belly laugh. "It's just hair," she replied calmly.
"No," I countered back. "To you it's just hair. You are good at hair. You know what to do with new hair. I don't. I'm not a hair person."
She smiled reassuringly and with one snip, I had bangs.
She finished cutting my hair. Thirty minutes later, while climbing out of the chair and glancing quickly in the mirror, I still wasn't sure.
When I first met up with my husband that night, it was during prayer meeting. He said nothing. He must not like it, I thought. Well, I'm not sure I like it either, I thought, while continuing my thought conversation with the man, who was either oblivious to my new hair or decidely against it, but unable to tell me.
After church, when he got home, he stared at me. I did not like it! My least favorite thing to talk about is hair. "Your hair looks good," he said casually as he hung up his coat.
Then he walked into the living room and started channel surfing.
That's it! All I got was that? Did he mean it? Was he sensing my insecurity and trying to make me feel better?
I glanced into the living room. He was already engrossed in a cop show.
The next morning I got up a little early. I needed to be sure that on my debut hair day it looked as good as I could do. I didn't wash it for fear it would look better a day-old but done by Chris, rather than fresh, but in the hands of an amateur.
I went to school.
No one noticed! (O.K. nobody except Linda, who was in the beautyshop, too.)
What could I make of it?
Two weeks later I met my beautiful 5 sisters, with (you guessed it) great hair, along with my mom and dad for my dad's 75th birthday. I checked to be sure my hair was as good as I could get. It was fine.
As we exchanged hugs....nobody noticed!
How could these sisters of mine not notice? Growing up they noticed if I had black socks instead of blue with my jeans. They noticed if a new pimple was starting to pop out along my hairline and handed me the consealer. They noticed if I said the word 'mirra' instead of 'mirror.' How could they not notice?
They didn't.
The next day, Carla said, "I noticed your hair looked really cute last night." Several other sisters chimed in agreement.
I smiled. "Oh it's just hair."
It separates my bangs like warm gravy from the fat.
I sat in my hairdresser's chair several weeks ago.
"What do you want?" Chris asked.
After a busy day of teaching children, I felt brain dead. I couldn't think.
"Do you want a highlight or more brown pulled through your hair?"
Once again I stared at Chris with the stare of my daughters when I ask them if they've gotten their chores done.
I began, "I don't feel like deciding. You're the professional. Do what you think."
After saying that, I immediately felt relief which quickly turned to fear.
Chris looked intently at my big forehead, "I say let's do some heavy bangs and trim the rest."
"Bangs? I can't have bangs. I have a collic, remember?" I asked.
"You can't do wispy bangs. You can do heavy bangs," Chris said.
"Wow...I thought I couldn't have bangs."
Chris began adding color through my hair. She rinsed it. Then asked me to go back to my styling seat. As I sat down, I glanced in the mirror.
Fear! Fear! Fear...pulsated through my being.
What if she cuts my bangs and I don't like them? What if I don't know what to do with them? What if they look horrible? I glanced in the mirror at my ever-present, growing larger by the second, forehead. I hate my big forehead! What if I hate my bangs more?
Chris nonchalantly picked up her scissors and brought them to my hair. She looked calm and knowledgeable. Could she not tell I was starting to sweat like I did in Freshman Speech?
She pulled up a small segment of hair. Her scissors opened. It was like the slow motion in a movie before something dramatic happens.
"I'm scared!" I shouted, clutching her hand with the scissors.
Embarrassment spread like icing on a warm cake.
I looked around. Everyone was looking at me. Chris looked intently and questioningly at me.
Chris smiled, holding back what surely must be a full-belly laugh. "It's just hair," she replied calmly.
"No," I countered back. "To you it's just hair. You are good at hair. You know what to do with new hair. I don't. I'm not a hair person."
She smiled reassuringly and with one snip, I had bangs.
She finished cutting my hair. Thirty minutes later, while climbing out of the chair and glancing quickly in the mirror, I still wasn't sure.
When I first met up with my husband that night, it was during prayer meeting. He said nothing. He must not like it, I thought. Well, I'm not sure I like it either, I thought, while continuing my thought conversation with the man, who was either oblivious to my new hair or decidely against it, but unable to tell me.
After church, when he got home, he stared at me. I did not like it! My least favorite thing to talk about is hair. "Your hair looks good," he said casually as he hung up his coat.
Then he walked into the living room and started channel surfing.
That's it! All I got was that? Did he mean it? Was he sensing my insecurity and trying to make me feel better?
I glanced into the living room. He was already engrossed in a cop show.
The next morning I got up a little early. I needed to be sure that on my debut hair day it looked as good as I could do. I didn't wash it for fear it would look better a day-old but done by Chris, rather than fresh, but in the hands of an amateur.
I went to school.
No one noticed! (O.K. nobody except Linda, who was in the beautyshop, too.)
What could I make of it?
Two weeks later I met my beautiful 5 sisters, with (you guessed it) great hair, along with my mom and dad for my dad's 75th birthday. I checked to be sure my hair was as good as I could get. It was fine.
As we exchanged hugs....nobody noticed!
How could these sisters of mine not notice? Growing up they noticed if I had black socks instead of blue with my jeans. They noticed if a new pimple was starting to pop out along my hairline and handed me the consealer. They noticed if I said the word 'mirra' instead of 'mirror.' How could they not notice?
They didn't.
The next day, Carla said, "I noticed your hair looked really cute last night." Several other sisters chimed in agreement.
I smiled. "Oh it's just hair."
