Speaking of Gray Hairs....

"Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you."

I posted the scripture this morning, but I think I'll add something tonight by Liz Curtis Higgs that really relates to gray hair. I had to break up with my hair stylist after many years, because she really couldn't cut hair very well. I'm glad I switched to Chandra but I did feel like I was cheating on Mary for a long time!

My mirror is mocking me again. You call that a haircut? Looks like you stood too close to a weed-eater! Six weeks ago, it taunted me: Having chemically dependent hair is one thing, but that color belongs on a fire truck! In fact, every time I return home from the salon, my reflection sings the same refrain: Is that the best she can do?

I've known her longer than I've known my husband. Our paths crossed in 1984, and I've faithfully sat in her chair ever since. When Carol switched salons, I followed her across town. "Wither thou goest, I will go," I assured her.

Who wouldn't declare lifelong loyalty to someone who combines her amateur therapist skills with the latest techniques in blunt cutting? Carol patiently listened through my career and dating woes, nodding sympathetically as her scissors snipped away. Those were the perm years—natural color, unnatural curl. Then when hubby-to-be Bill came into my life, Carol and I dumped the perm in favor of longer locks to please my sweetie. Months later, it was Carol who styled the tresses of my wedding party, and Carol again who gave me a pedicure the week before my first child was slated to arrive, so I'd have fashionable toes in the delivery room.

Our relationship isn't one-sided, either. I sang at Carol's wedding and rejoiced when she began taking college courses at night. We've laughed, cried, and compared notes on husbands, kids, and cleaning services. You can't simply walk away from that kind of dual commitment over something as frivolous as a few frizzy perms or doubtful dye-jobs.

Women spend a minimum of forty-five minutes in a salon; two hours with color; three hours for a perm with a manicure. Toss in a facial or a wax job, and we're approaching half a day with our smocked sister.

Bill was aghast the first time he saw a credit card receipt from a visit with Carol. "Sixty dollars?!? You look the same as you did this morning. Can't you find someone less expensive?"

Less expensive, sure. But that's not the point. Carol and I are friends. Girl buddies. Partners in the fight against dark roots and stray chin hairs. She's seen me in no makeup. Who could say "Sayonara" to a soul sister like that?

But last month I came frighteningly close to committing hair-care infidelity. Just the memory of it makes my scalp itch. I was having my photo taken, and arrangements were made for my makeup and hair. After the cosmetician did a bang-up job on eyes, lips, and cheeks, it was time to put my thinning red (this year) hair in the hands of a stranger named Steve.

Steve the Stylist rested his hands lightly on my shoulders, and my stomach tightened. I felt like a nervous teenager on a first date.

"Is there a particular way you'd like me to style your hair?"

Yes, I wanted to say, Carol's way! Instead, I gulped. "Nooo, just make me look ten pounds thinner and I'll be happy."

His graceful hands danced around my head, comb in one hand, industrial-strength hair spray in the other. I watched in amazement. I was getting thinner! Wow, Carol never parted it like that. How did he do that lift-and-poof thing on the side? Fascinating!

Steve finally whipped off my plastic cape with a flourish. "There you are, Liz. What do you think?"

I think I'm in love. No, no, not with you, just your hands. Are you this good with scissors? Know your way around a bottle of peroxide?

I realized the dangerous path my imagination was taking me down, and mentally swatted away the little voices saying, He's the one! He's the one! Leave Carol and cleave to Steve!

When he slipped me his card and suggested I give him a call sometime, I stuffed it in my pocket, mumbled a red-faced "thank you," and hot-footed it for the door.

Whew! That was close. I'd resisted temptation, but barely. How could I even think of breaking up a friendship in its second decade, just for the thrill of a zippy new 'do? Sure, Steve might have some fresh ideas for my stale tresses, but what would I say when I saw Carol at the grocery store sporting a new color or cut after being absent from her chair for six months? Even without a big red "A" on my chest, she'd know: I'd been unfaithful.

I knew I should have tossed Steve's business card in the circular file, but couldn't resist tucking it in my Rolodex, "just in case." In case Carol moved away, or quit the business. Or was eaten by sharks. Otherwise, I would not defect to Steve. Would not, could not.

But my fingers kept flipping past his name. Hmmm. Would Carol notice if I did one little color weave with Steve? Maybe a teensy trim, between real haircuts? If I timed it right, she'd never be the wiser. I reached for the phone and dialed Steve's salon. The receptionist was sharp, cool, professional. Yes, Steve had an opening on Tuesday. A weave? Of course, no problem, two o'clock is fine. See you then, Mrs. Higgs.

I almost slammed the phone down. What was I thinking? As the calendar marched toward Tuesday, I spent more time on my hair than usual, trying to convince myself to undo my risk-filled liaison. It's not that bad a cut, I told myself. In fact, it's a very good cut or Steve couldn't have styled it so nicely.

Tuesday morning dawned gray and menacing. Cowardice leaped from my heart and into my fingers as I dialed the Other Salon's number and cancelled my appointment, muttering a feeble excuse about my too-full schedule.

I waited for my racing heart to slow back down to normal, then hit the speed-dial button that instantly put me in touch with my regular salon. My salon, Carol's salon. Home.
"A cut with Carol at two o'clock? No problem, Liz. See you then. Hug the kids for me."

Ahhh. I hung up the phone in blessed relief, silently slipping Steve's card in the wastebasket. No more flirting with temptation; I'd stick with a place where everybody knows my name.
Especially Carol.