I'm No Doctor...I Have No Patience

In life, having patience can be very valuable. This is especially true when it pertains to one’s hair.

For instance, at the end of a summer vacation spent on my grandparents’ farm, I resembled something akin to a sheep dog. We were literally miles from town and there was no where to get a haircut (why don’t we say we’re getting our hairs cut? It’s sort of like a toothbrush. In most cases, shouldn’t it be called a teeth brush?). After a few months, my bangs were so long they were blocking my vision.

Not having the patience to wait until I returned home where dad would take me to our local barber, I took it upon myself to trim my own bangs. How difficult could that be? A few snips of the scissors and SHAZAM the job is done. Riiiiight. You know and I know that when a thirteen-year-old boy stumbles upon what he considers to be an excellent idea all he envisions is a perfect outcome and he carelessly pursues his notion. Rarely does he see any hidden imperfections in his plan.

So, standing in front of mirror, holding a pair of scissors to my forehead, the trimming of the bangs began. Two and a half hours later, job completed.

A few days after this event, summer vacation was over and my parents arrived to take me home. As mom stepped out of the car she just stood there staring at me as if she didn’t recognize her third son, me. In some subtle way that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, I looked vastly different than when she and dad dropped me off a few months earlier.

It took a day or so, but it finally dawned on mom what was so different about me. You see, back when I trimmed my hair I forgot to take into account a very simple but important fact: somewhere underneath those bangs of mine was a pair of eyebrows. By the time I’d finished trimming my hair there was only bone and skin protruding over my eyes, no brows, nothing, zilch!

The fact that my eyebrows would eventually grow back was of little comfort to a boy on the threshold of puberty, wanting very much to have the opposite gender take note of his budding masculinity. Needless to say, until my eyebrows returned, time just seemed to crawl by.

Well, fast forward about 20 some odd years when I had just moved to Branson, Missouri. I had a very important business meeting on a Tuesday afternoon and by Friday of the previous week my hair was in desperate need of a trim. When calling to make and appointment to get the job done, I was informed my hairstylist was out of the office. I could wait for her return on Tuesday morning or someone else at the shop could cut my hair. Being the impatient person that I was, I didn’t want to wait until Tuesday. I wanted the haircut right then.

Now, since the person selected to do the job was also the business partner of my regular stylist, I figured it was a pretty good gamble that she’d give me a very similar hair cut. Certainly their styling methods would be the same. WRONG!

You see, I was expecting a trim. What I got was just shy of the hair style commonly known as a “crew cut.” My kids started calling me Spike. In fact, my hair was so short hurricane-force winds wouldn’t have put it in disarray. The last time my hair was that short was, hmmm…oh yeah, my BIRTH!

Sure, I knew the hair would eventually grow back, but that was of little comfort to a guy trying to get his career going, who needed the marketing and public relations community to take note of his budding talent. Needless to say, until that business meeting was over, time just seemed to crawl by.

As far as social events went, well, I figured I could wear a hat. Only thing was, how would I explain to my clergy, and other church members, why I was wearing a cap on my head that read, “Heaven won’t take me, and Hell’s afraid I’ll take over?”