A Hair-Razing Experience

Tangela had finished cutting my hair, and now, to my surprise, she was wielding a razor.  Her hand was poised above my head at a precise angle as I exclaimed, “You’re going to use a razor on my hair?!”

Jerking her hand back and taking a step backwards, she said, “Well, yes, I was going to . . . that is . . . unless you don’t want me to.”

I guess my emotional reaction had scared her.  What I had to explain was that I was overjoyed at the prospect of having my hair razed.  No one had shaped up my ultra-short hairdo with a razor since I moved away from my friend Sherri.  My last hair person was not comfortable with that process, I guess; she had told me she “didn’t do that.”  She did do a good job with the scissors, so I had stayed with her until she was  “no longer with us.”  That’s when I decided to go to the other place nearer my house.

You see, I get my hair cut at the “fast food” of hair salons.  It’s fast, inexpensive, and non-committal.  People come and go.  There’s no long-term involvement.  Things can get too locked-in when a relationship becomes exclusive.  This was about to happen with Tangela, however, as I loved the texturizing magic she worked with that razor.  But alas, our blossoming friendship was to be cut short.  I called today and was told she is “no longer with us.”  That’s the downside — no warning!

Stunned, I expressed my needs to the stylist who had answered the phone.  She said, “Any of our girls can do that.  It’s taught in beauty school.”  Then she added, “That is . . . if our razors are sharp.”

Ouch!  Maybe I should reconsider Paul’s advice about that hair-cutting thing after all!


About Jan Hamlett

Exploring faith outside the safety of Sunday
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