The 70’s were a time for expressing yourself. It was a time of gaudy, tie-dyed t-shirts and jeans with wide, flared legs. Let’s not forget the high-heeled shoes that we wore during those disco-inspired days, and the higher and thicker the heel the more upscale your standing would be among your peers. Looking back at old pictures I have to wonder what we were thinking, and I’ve done my best to hide/eliminate any documented evidence of my so-called style during those days from my own children today. But it was more than the clothes and shoes that we wore – it was also our long, shaggy hair! I do not recall anyone during that era sporting a closely cropped crew-cut, maybe there was. But no person under the age of 40 that I can recall from either my high school or my church had hair above the ear-line during the Nixon/Ford years.
We had a barber that my family used and he was a good man. He later became a judge in our county and served in that capacity for many years. Honest and forthright, he attended church with us and became a close, family friend. The places available to get a hair cut back then were fairly limited, and no boy in his right mind would have considered going to a ‘beauty salon’ during that period of history. What I am saying is that everyone used him and he was the barber of choice in our rural part of the county.
Early one Saturday morning my dad informed me that enough was enough and he wanted me to get a hair cut. It was useless to object and I knew it was pointless to argue with him as I brushed the thick, bushy locks up and out of my eyes. I drove my car over to the barber shop and I was the only customer that gray morning; the shop was empty except for the fishing magazines that lay haphazardly on the chairs. He seemed pleased to see me and as I sat in the chair he asked me how I wanted it cut. I replied that I just wanted a little trim, maybe out of my eyes as I thought that would satisfy my dad for at least a few more weeks. He began talking to me, telling me a story as he was apt to do, and the hair began falling in droves as he did his work. When he finished, he swivelled me around in the chair to face the mirror and I was mortified! A little trim? Maybe I should have been more precise with my instructions, I thought, staring at the neatly-coiffed person in the mirror. I even had the dreaded ‘white-walls’ over my ears – it was a personal tragedy. The thoughts whirled through my mind and in that moment I realized that I would be the bane of my circle of friends and (horrors!) no girl would ever look at me again!
Being unnaturally shy as a teenager, and also very respectful, with downcast eyes I thanked him and told him that it ‘looked real good’. But inside I was seething and on the verge of tears. How could he have done this to me, I wondered. Oh, the humanity! How uncool! I drove myself home, too depressed to even bother turning on the radio. Life for me was over, I was sure of it; and my anger burned within me as I knew it was all his fault!
I survived somehow. My hair proved resilient and grew back while most of my friends, after I took a lot of ribbing, got over it. As I look back, the real ones always did. I continued to use him as a barber because as I have mentioned, there were no other choices. Yet I do not recall him cutting my hair that short during any of my later visits as the years quickly passed by. Later on, after I joined the military and was stationed close to home his haircuts even became an asset – because of him I never failed a formal military inspection!
When I attended his funeral a few years ago, I rehashed the haircut story with one of his daughters and I finally learned the secret of what had transpired during that morning so long ago. She explained that my father had placed a call to him while I was in-route to the shop and had given him specific instructions on how he wanted my hair to look once the job was completed. It wasn’t his idea to shear (scalp!) me, but he had his orders from my father and he was inclined to follow them as such. My anger that day, though not expressed, was ill-aimed as not only did I not have all of the facts, but I did not understand the context of the situation. He had higher orders that originated from above me.
I’m older now and I can also see the wisdom of what my father was trying to do. I have had to force my own sons to get haircuts and many other things they needed to do on several different occasions. At no time was it out of spite or harshness. And though much like me during my haircutting experience there may have been times they were unable to comprehend it; the things I did were always for their own good.
In Romans 8, Paul writes: “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” I may not always understand why things happen in my life the way they do. At times certain issues I’ve faced may have seemed unfair to me. There have been times when I've almost lost faith because of my own failure to comprehend what God was doing in my life, and during those times I have felt many emotions ranging from anger to sorrow. But God has always had a plan for me. By trusting in Him and ignoring the things that I cannot see or know, in the end I have no doubt He will lead me down the path I need to follow. It is for His purpose that I was designed and created, and I'll always need to remember that.
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