I got my hair done today. I'm not one of those 'every six weeks' women who rush in to get their roots touched up and their uneven ends trimmed. I just don't care enough. Don't like the hassle, can't afford the cost. All of the above. So I stretch out the time between hair-cuts until I'm bound to hear the same kind of comments every time I sit in that chair. "Wow, you really need at least an inch taken off." And, of course, even with my lovely young hair-dresser, "I always forget how fine and thin your hair is."
So I girded my loins and went in to get those thin, lank locks shorn--at least an inch. And sure enough, Amy made a few comments about my hair. Yada, yada, yada, like I can do one blasted thing about the weight and girth of each strand of my hair. There are a whole lot of things about myself I can change--can ask God to change, I should say--but my thin, fine, shiny hair is NOT one of them. The hairs on my head may be numbered, but they are numbered fine.
Most of the time, however, the conversation I had with Amy, my hairdresser, was about her life. She has a 4 month old baby boy and another boy, almost three. And Amy is tired. More than tired, she feels like she has not a moment to herself, even in the bathroom, not enough energy for the day's tasks, and not nearly enough support with a husband who works out of town much of each month. I listened to her and remembered. Remembered how much sleep deprivation feels like being strung out on drugs, and how, even though those babies are so adorable a mother would die for them, there's also a sense of "I can't do this!" to those foggy, early years.
Then we spoke of the challenges in my life, the elders who are reluctant to do what is best for them, who do not listen to our sound words, get grouchy when they miss their naps, and whine when they are hungry. "Why, they're just like my babies," Amy said.
Exactly, I told her. There is a circle of life and we're living it.
And in the meantime, the very hairs on our head are counted.
And they are fine.