Saturday, April 25, 2015

God's Will and a Haircut

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As I've mentioned before, I have an irrational fear of the hairdresser. It all starts with my poorly planned hair cutting regime comprised of the following steps:
1. Pore over unattainable haircuts on Pinterest. Decide getting a lob is a great idea.  
2. Realize that my hair is too thick and curly for a lob. Cry. 
3. Gather courage to get back on Pinterest, search for a haircut for naturally curly hair. 
4. Find examples only for African American-type curly hair, which while lovely, is not what graces my frizzy head.
5. Give up on Pinterest and forfeit all dreams of getting a haircut. 
6. Look in the mirror and realize my slip-ends are far too crazy to procrastinate any longer. 
7. Procrastinate for another month anyway. #hairrebel 
8. Finally get fed up with the whole lifeless-hair game and run to Great Clips on a whim. 
Last December I gave in to such a whim and found myself nervously squirming on a shiny black salon chair. (I have to admit those chairs are the one ray of sunshine in that oh-so-girly storm of hair-ruining grey. I could ride up and down in them for hours.) Channeling all of the knowledge I gained from my Pinterest wanderings, I carefully outlined how I wanted my hair (hairs?) to be cut.
      "Just a little of the ends, please", I stuttered. "Oh, and if you could shape my side bang a little that would be great!"

All seemed well in the world as the hairdresser clipped away. At least all was well in her world -- she happily hummed to herself and did a kind of prancing dance around my chair as she worked.

To my horror, about halfway through my haircut (you know, the part where your hair is as wet as a dead rat and one half is two inches shorter than the other), the door chimed and in walked the pack of popular boys from my school. <insert dying sounds here>

I, by no means, had any desire to impress those large-egoed beasts children of God, I just didn't want to give them any ammo to throw at me during their next teasing session. Basically, I figured that my hair had already caused me enough grief after forcing me to endure steps 1-8 of the aforementioned cycle and didn't need to interfere with the social environment of my English class.

As the happy salon worker snipped and snipped, I prayed she would go faster. The second she handed me the little mirror to check the back of my head, I paid for the cut and bolted for the door as fast as I could without so much as a glance at the length of my layers or cut of my bangs. (Yeah, I'm calm, cool, and collected like that.)

My anxiety-driven haste proved to be my downfall. I'm ashamed to say that when I got home and gave my locks a good blow dry, I cried like a baby who'd just lost its favorite blanky. Tragically, the side bangs I was used to styling now had no angle to them, but hung straight across one half of my face in a way horribly reminiscent of the haircuts four-year-olds give themselves when they decide they want to have hair like Cinderella's.

I should have listened to this meme:

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Unfortunately, my bangs did not look even close to dear Cinderella's (or even the poor girl's in the photo above). Desperate for a fix before a family dinner (note to self: never get a hair cut on an important day), I anxiously walked into the hair salon yet again and begged the stylist for mercy.

"How would you feel about a straight-across bang?" she asked. Seeing it was my only option, I reluctantly agreed. And I'm actually glad that I did.

To my great surprise, unlike the side-bangs I had come to cherish, my new do took very little straightening and even hid my forehead acne. #win It was fun to mix life up a little bit (and pretending I was Taylor Swift on her Red album cover didn't hurt either).

Were the bangs something I would have chosen for myself? No. But did I like them? You betcha.

As I've thought about this experience more, I realized that my bad-to-beautiful bangs are kind of an analogy for life. A lot of times we ask God for side-bangs -- you know, the avoidance of a certain trial, the prevention of a loved one's death, the gift of healing from an illness, etc. --  thinking that's what we want, but being the all-knowing and loving Heavenly Father that He is, He gives us something better.

Sometimes that something is painful. Sometimes that something requires wading through deep waters and enduring a trial one did not desire to face, but nevertheless, the struggle is always worth it.

In the words of Ezra Taft Benson:

If we let Him, God will be the master stylist of our lives. He will shape us, refine us, and even clip off our split ends until we become like Him and His son, Jesus Christ.

May we trust in Him and find joy even in the awkward-banged times of our lives,
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  1. I love this! Thank you so much! I needed it right now

  2. This made me chuckle. Thank you and I think following my hair board will also help just a tad (I have curly thick hair too).

    1. Thanks Lyssa! I just followed you on Pinterest! :)



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