1987. I was living in a rather spacious apartment next to the railroad tracks in Herstal, Belgium. It was early in my mission and my companion and I had already been through a lot together. One of the stand-out physical characteristics about my companion was her hair. Bold, thick, long straight hair that reached well down to her waist. Like most people I knew with long, thick hair, it was her trademark. She seemed empowered with an almost Samson-like strength from it.

When she decided to cut it, I was shocked. When she asked me to cut it for her, I felt a little sick inside. No. Really sick. Kind of like those poor husbands who have been sworn under the penalty of never-ending wrath to not let their wives, bent on a natural birth, have an epidural no matter how loud or fiercely they begged for it when the throes of hard labor wracked their bodies. Not even Solomon can get you out of that one.

At the same time, I was sure I’d seen this done somewhere before. Probably Seventeen magazine. A cute little how-to photograph perhaps. Something about pulling the luxurious lengths into a single pony tail and just whacking it off. How hard could it be, right?

My trusting companion grabbed a large, sharp pair of shears, bunched up her shiny locks into a sleek ponytail and turned her back to me, trusting me to the task.

And so I cut. I can still hear the sharp squeak of the scissor blades as they slid across her hair.

It was awful. As soon as I watched the thick tail of dark brown hair fall to the floor I realized my mistake. Not only was the slice across her hair not in any way straight. But the front, being pulled back, was MUCH longer than the back, which was, well, much shorter than my companion had requested.

ACK!

Hand shaking, I did my best to even it out. But in that crazy way hair has of moving over your head and ears and around your shoulders, the length of it—or, by that time, lack thereof—shifted every time. So by the time I was done with the scissors my poor companion’s hair was both way too short and not nearly as neat.

I don’t remember much after that. Whether she found someone to “fix it” or if she just left it poorly cut. But I do remember that despite her attachment to her gorgeous head of hair, she forgave me for ruining it and life went on. Some people said cutting her hair changed her. I’d like to think we both changed. Likely not because of the haircut, but more due to the way your heart changes when you learn to live, love and forgive.

But I still remember the trauma. And I still have a strange fixation with whacking off long hair. A friend of mine just did it. Donating her hair to Locks of Love, she now sports a darling pixie cut that is absolutely adorable on her.

Oh and that Emma Watson! SO CUTE!

So tell me about your hair. Love it or hate it? Long or short? Ever whacked it off? Any haircutting horror stories? I could tell you about the time I unthinkingly ran the non-guarded shears right up the middle of my oldest’s head. Or when I asked for something easy after my fourth child and the stylist gave me The Rachel (the round brush is not my friend) and the theme song from Friends played on the radio as I drove home. And finally, do you wear your hair how you prefer it or to please someone else (you know what I’m talking about–that whole Rapunzel thing so many men seem to have)?

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  3. Ask, Receive


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