"Hair" Today, Gone Tomorrow

My hair stylist and I have an understanding.

I wait until the last possible minute to call beg for an appointment, come in with completely no idea of how I want it cut, and spend the entire time in the chair agonizing over if she is clipping off too much. For her part, she works me in even though her schedule is always full, listens patiently while I vacillate between everything from Posh Spice's sporty 'do to growing locks longer than Rapunzel, and carefully reassures me that everything will turn out just fine.

Clearly, hair stylists everywhere are beating down my door for business.

Thankfully, though, the sweet girl who cuts my hair is a long standing friend. And perhaps I should be even more grateful that we have remained so even after she took me on as a client. It's a miracle that we didn't have to seek hair therapy to work out some of our trust issues.

Well, one of us, anyway. But, in my defense, past hair experiences have shaped (pun intended) me into the client I am today.

The road to finding my precious Kristi, hair tamer extraordinaire, has been a bumpy one, to say the least. And although I'm sure it was paved with good intentioned stylists, it often resulted in some very disturbing hair-do's.

At the end of high school, I did a brief stint of modeling with an agency in Houston that sent me to have my hair cut by a man named Andre. Apparently, he thought it would be really edgy to cut lots of flowing layers. Turns out, his idea of flowing layers was a throwback to Farrah Faucet and her plastered wings. Great idea in the 80's, Andre, not so happening for 1995. Goodbye modeling career, may you rest in peace.

The strained relationship with hair stylists did not end there.

Take, for instance, college, when I went in for a trim and walked out with the same hair cut as my father. Turns out $15 doesn't buy the greatest of craftsmanship. (No offense, Dad, it looks great on you.) Thank you for your services, Edward Scissorhands, but I'm afraid you and I will have to part ways.

Years later I moved to Dallas. Determined to find the perfect hair stylist, I went to the most expensive salon I could find. However, I discovered too late that money doesn't always buy good hair do's.

Ian, who preferred to be called, "Dash", (perhaps this should have been my first clue) never said one word from the moment he placed me in his chair. He began to Chi my dry hair and then promptly took the scissors and started snipping. After about 3 minutes of this, his assistant informed me, "Dash is pleased with his work."

Apparently, they don't call him "Dash" for nothing.

Dumbfounded, I handed over my life savings, was escorted to the door, and was in my car before I ever knew what hit me. One glance in the mirror revealed my hair looked exactly as it had upon entering the salon 5 minutes earlier. But "Dash" was pleased, so at least that made one of us.

Yes, good hair stylists are a rare commodity.

I wouldn't trade my precious Kristi for anybody else in the world. When I left her salon on Thursday, I thanked God for bringing us together. I truly believe His hand was in it because we serve a God that cares about the little things. (Although, technically, hair as thick as mine can't really be called a "little thing".)

Kristi, you are a gem. My hair thanks you for your services and my heart thanks you for your friendship.

Please remember this the next time I am calling for a last minute appointment or in your chair, agonizing over the hair cut you are creating.