Scissors, Clippers, and Combs: A Hair Raising Experience

By Chris Carenter
CBN.com Program Director

CBN.com -

I must confess that I am a follically challenged man. Fortunately I have all of my original hair and do not supplement my coiffure with various weaves, plugs, or toupees. My remonstrance is the result of hair that has "a life of its own." It is straight as a highway in Kansas and as stringy as a ball of fishing line.

What you are about to read is my personal journey through shag hairdo's of the 1970's, a foray into the high style of 1980's hair gel and hair spray, and my neatly manicured television reporter era of the 1990's.

At an early age I thought I was an heir to haircutting royalty. My grandfather owned and operated a small, independent barber shop complete with a swirly barber pole outside his shop that revolved in slow but steady fashion 24 hours a day. Featuring three chairs lined up neatly in a row, it was the kind of place where you might expect the cast of "The Andy Griffith Show" to wander in for a clip and a shave at any moment.

When I was about six years old my mother would drop me off at her father's shop so that I could spend some quality time with my grandfather. I took this opportunity very seriously as I thought that one day I might take over the barbershop empire from him. My duties consisted of sweeping hair up off the floor between cuts and staying out of his way. As payment for my services, he would cut my hair "free of charge" once per month.

I thought all members of my haircutting royal family were blessed with perfectly tailored hair until one day when I was about seven years old. My brother and I were riding home with our mother from another night at the barber shop, fresh haircuts in tow, when she remarked, "Your brother has such nice wavy hair." She proceeded to run her fingers through his follicles in the front seat. I sat patiently in the back seat waiting for her to give my hair the same treatment she had given him. Nothing. Not a pat on the head, nor a pleasant compliment, just the rhythmic whirring of the tires as they rolled over the pavement. Finally, I spoke up, "What about my hair? What do you like about my hair?" My mother paused and then let out a long sigh. "Well dear, you have hair just like your father's."

Hair like my father's? This was the best compliment a boy could receive. I had hair like my father's! It wasn't until a few months later that I realized this wasn't such a great compliment after all. Walking by my parent's bathroom one morning before school, I noticed that my mother appeared to be performing some sort of ritualistic ceremony on my father's head. It looked like she was swirling cotton candy over his scalp. But it wasn't cotton candy, it was his hair. My father had a comb over!!

Shortly after this devastating experience my family moved four hours away to a new town. Not privy to free haircuts at my grandfather's barber shop anymore, my mother took us to a real "hair salon" in our new community. Still recovering from the realization that I might someday have a comb over too, my fragile state of hair was about to take another blow. Our new "hairstylist" used clippers. In fact, he enjoyed using the clippers so much that there was little hair left on my head when he was finished. I had officially been scalped for the first time in my life. As soon as I got home that day I donned a wool winter hat, complete with pom-pom on top. I vowed I would never take the hat off again and secondly I would never allow that sinister "hairstylist" to shear me like a sheep in the future.

And he didn't. Realizing that I had endured such hardship of the hair, I guess my mother figured that because her father was a professional barber, she could cut hair too. Once every six weeks for the next three years, she would get out a metallic straining bowl, place it on my head and trim the hair that fell beneath its lip. For better or for worse, I had become the bowl cut kid.

Eventually we found a barber that I was happy with and the next several years of haircutting went smoothly and without incident. It was off to college.

Toward the end of my freshman year, several of my baseball teammates decided that our team needed to get "unity" haircuts. It was the late 1980's so anything that had a spiky element to it was in style. We opted for mullets. While most of my teammates left the barbershop that day sporting haircuts that made them look like actors on "Beverly Hills 90210", I emerged from the shearing session looking like an old raccoon that had gotten too close to a lawn mower. My hair was mangy and I was good naturedly maligned by my teammates for the remainder of the season.

Fortunately, time heals all wounds and in my case the hair grew back. Early that fall I began dating a wonderful young woman who would later become my wife. Very early in our courtship she gently suggested that I change my hairstyle. When I asked why, she confronted me saying, "I guess there is no other way to say this so I am just going to let it fly. Your hair looks horrible." I stared at her for several moments not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Finally, I asked, "Why?" She proceeded to tell me that my hair was always hanging in my eyes and that she found it a bit embarrassing that I was always whipping my head back in a convulsing motion to clear my follically impaired vision.

Shortly thereafter I changed my hairstyle and we eventually became engaged to be married. I was now out of college and working in the communications industry. A week or so before we were to walk down the aisle, I was chatting with my intern about all of the troubles I had had with my hair over the years. I explained that I really wanted to have a hairdo that would "dazzle" on my wedding day. My intern, who was extremely fashion conscious and often looked like he came straight from the pages of GQ Magazine, suggested I get a "French bowl cut with a fade."

Trusting him completely I went to a hair salon the very next day. With great confidence I announced to the hairstylist, "I would like a French bowl cut with a fade."

She looked at me blankly for several moments and then asked if she could be excused for a couple of minutes. I watched with great anticipation as she walked over to one of her hair cutting colleagues and began having an animated conversation with her. "This is great," I thought, "she is probably asking for the special scissors and hair lotions that are required to perform the French bowl cut with a fade."

She eventually returned. Just before she began, I heard her sigh just as my mother had so many years ago. She said, "Oh well, here goes." Her sigh was soon replaced by a series of frowns and grimaces. At one point I asked if there was anything wrong. She said, "No?" However, I found it to be a bit peculiar that the word "no" was being uttered as a question. Needless to say, I left the hair salon 30 minutes later with a style resembling a hair helmet.

I guess my wife takes the wedding vow "For better or for worse" seriously because my hair was in a serious state of "for worse." Aside from a friend at the wedding reception suggesting I had the type of haircut you get a free bowl of soup with, my walk down the aisle was a success.

Just to show you that a man with a bad haircut can get a job on television, I eventually became a television sports reporter. My executive producer pulled me aside very early in my tenure and explained that it was critically important that my hair always look "fresh" on the air. He recommended a couple of hair salons that would do a good job with my hair.

My first visit to the "fancy" hair salon was an education to say the least. Upon my arrival, Vivica, my stylist, sat me down at her desk and interviewed me about my hair and what I wanted to accomplish with it. I was dumbfounded. I never realized you could have goals and aspirations for your hair. What a novel concept.

"Well, I guess I would like to have it shorter than it is right now," I said innocently. "And beyond that, I would like it to be something that is easy to manage."

She nodded vigorously and asked if I had ever considered highlights. I answered, "Of course, I am sports reporter. That is what we do."

She then pulled out a litany of hairstyle photo albums, showing me what she thought would work in my situation. I kept wondering what she meant by "my situation." As you can imagine, I had become quite paranoid about my hair over the years. To me, "my situation" suggested that my hair was hopelessly beyond repair.

We decided on a style. Vivica became a whirlwind of scissors, clippers, and combs. Finally, when the last hair had been meticulously styled, she placed a mirror in front of my face to view the "new" Chris. Unfortunately, there was a slight problem. My hair looked essentially the same. Sure, it was a little shorter but the base style was no different then before. Complicating matters, she charged me $50 dollars for the same cut I would pay $8 dollars for at Super Cuts. Adding insult to the entire episode, a fellow reporter told me the next day that I looked like my hair had "exploded."

Today, I am pleased to announce that I have given up on my hair. Gone are the days of trying to impress others with the latest hairstyles or combing techniques. What was once a nice brown color has faded into a steely, distinguished look in late years. I am proud to say I haven't combed my hair in the last six months. This is not a form of protest but yet another new style I am trying. I have come to grips with my hair. And you know what? It is ok.

I don't really care about how others perceive my physical appearance. I only care about how God sees me. He doesn't care about how my hair looks. In fact, he loves how my hair looks. He loves how your hair looks too.

In I Samuel 16:7, it is written, "But the Lord said to Samuel, 'Do not look at his appearance or at his physical stature, because I have refused him. For the Lord does not see as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."

God does not judge us as others judge us. He realizes that physical appearance is not representative of a person's heart. It is futile to judge a person based on beauty, intelligence, financial resources, or how the world determines success. More importantly, He looks directly into our hearts to see who we really are. He sees our potential and gifts, knowing how to best use them.*

If we will open ourselves to His leading, He will help us use what He has given us to His glory and our best interests.

Translation: It is not about the hair, it is about what is in the heart.

Information used in this article from The Transformer Study Bible.

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