In my junior high years, I started trying to grow out my locks, which, as most of you know, had it's bad days and its worse days. It has never ceased to astound me how the same hair on the same person, washed in the same water, dried in the same fashion, styled with the same hair products, and finished in the same way can fluctuate so absolutely between utterly fabulous and completely grotesque. This has been my unfortunate experience, and when I had a "bad hair day", it didn't effect just me - it effected the people who were unfortunate enough to have to sit behind me - within 110 degree arc - in geometry class or english class or Spanish class or the movie theater. Furthermore, those kinds of days became more and more frequent as a T.V. show called Friends became popular and ushered out the popular "big hair" of the 80's and ushered in the stick straight, perfectly placed, unbelievably smooth and shiny 90's hair. I agonized in front of a big mirror for years - trying to tame down the God-given mane into something more popular. I have done the same thing, off and on, for many years since.
My curly hair was the object of many an obnoxious boy's teasing. In fact, one fateful day in the fall of my 8th grade year, an unfortunate fellow-student ended a humiliating day of his own, with a red handprint, the size of my hand, on the side of his face... all because of my hair. In Bible class, of all things, he had decided to call me "afro chick" - the way he often had - whispering it into my ear as he sat behind me. However, on this occasion, he topped it off by spitting wads of paper mixed with his saliva into my hair also. As I struggled to pull these wads out of my mangled coiffure, I began to be less and less inclined to "turn the other cheek". So... I warned him that he'd better stop or be sorry he hadn't. This deterred him for a while, as we both worked on our tests. As I finished early, he began in again with his teasing and spit-wadding, and my mild manner could take it no longer. I stood, turned around, looked at his smug face, wound up, and slapped him with all I had in me. He proceeded to promptly and completely black out. I turned around and sat down. The teacher, whose view of what had happened was blocked by several desks and students, asked, "Who did that?" I raised my hand and said, "I did." He called me to his desk asking, "What was that noise?" I said, "I slapped Jake." He said, "You did what??" I replied, "I slapped Jake." He said, "That was one of the loudest sounds I've ever heard. Is he okay?" I looked back at his lifeless figure on the floor and declared, "I don't think so."
I couldn't tell you what happened in the moments that followed aside from the fact that I was sent to the principal's office (for the first time ever), and that I was made to apologize to Jake. It made it easier as his smug grin was replaced by a rather swollen, red likeness of my own hand. Had it not been for my hair, he might have had no reason to tease me at all.
As an adult, I tried several times to have hairdressers "fix" my hair through a new cut and/or style, only to be completely embarrassed or disappointed or both when I walked out of their doors. In fact, on one occasion, as an adult, I participated in a friend's wedding. She sent us to a particular hair studio in town to get our hair done. We were instructed to arrive with our hair freshly shampooed and ready to be styled. I did as I was told and arrived, along with 6 other women, to have my hair styled for the wedding. I waited eagerly to see how they would style my hair - hoping for some new tip or hope for my hair. The three stylists glanced from woman to woman and called each over in turn to style her hair. As it came down to the last of us, the stylists turned to one another and argued over which one "had to" take me. The one who lost the coin toss reluctantly called me to sit down in her chair and proceeded to brush my hair out. I looked like Troy Polamalu. My hair was huge and frizzy. To make things worse, she found some tangles that she could simply not brush out of my hair. She then proceeded to take scissors and cut those chunks out of my hair. She then re-curled my hair in a "nicer" way, and charged me $45 for her time. I didn't look horrible, but I had again received the message that my hair was too curly and unruly and imperfect.
I have felt convicted, off and on, for several years now about trying to cultivate a more natural beauty, in acknowledgement of and appreciation for what God has given me. After all, He never thought when he was creating me, "I'll give this one freckles and frizz, because they can't all be beauty queens." He took pride in what He made and "saw that it was good". He gave me all of what I needed to be unique and to glorify Him.
I once found a placard in a dollar store that said, "God loves each of us as if there were only one of us." It was a sweet thought, I guessed, and I bought it to keep in my kitchen, as a pleasant thought. Only recently, however, have I rediscovered how true that little statement really is.
My husband had a "Holiday Party" for his work last Saturday night. It is pretty much the only night of the year when I feel like it's okay to get a dress to wear and to look a little fancy. Every occasion I've encountered in my adult life when I've wanted to look extra pretty or fancy has never turned out the way I had hoped. The hair dressers would get my hair wrong or the dress wouldn't fit right or both. Last year, at this same party, one of Mark's co-workers came over to be introduced and declared, "Oh, you're Mark's wife? I thought you would look younger. Your picture on Mark's desk looks younger." I can't quite explain how I felt (aside from the fact that the photo on Mark's desk had been taken only 3 months earlier), but it was a mixture of confusion, annoyance, and sadness. I doubt I'll ever forget it - or stop mentioning it from time to time when Mark talks about this guy from work. "Oh, yeah, the guy who said I look OLD!" to my husband's refrain of, "He really is a nice guy." I'm sure he is, but an etiquette session wouldn't be lost on him.
Anyway, this year I have lost about 10-15 pounds from last year, and I think that I felt a little better about going - feeling I had a little less to be self-conscious about. As I was preparing to go, I prayed that I would feel pretty, but that people would see God in me. I prayed that I wouldn't feel so self-conscious. I felt very sure of His presence with me as I went through the usual steps of getting ready. I felt completely reassured and calm. I kept getting a feeling I can't describe as anything more than a "nudge" to try wearing my hair curly and going light on my makeup. As I went with a light foundation, I began to search for a compact of eyeshadow that my hairdresser sold to me a few months ago. It had some dark colors and a brush to help get a more heavy application. I couldn't find it anywhere, although it's always been in the same place. I felt as though I would find it, but only after I was obedient to lightly apply a more natural shade, which I did. I was certain I was going to find it, and trusted it would turn up eventually. As I went into the bedroom, I bent down to get something, I looked slightly up and saw, under our bedskirt, a black compact. It was the makeup that had gone missing from the bathroom. The odds of me 1) looking under our bed, 2) seeing it was there under the bedskirt, and 3) that it had happened within seconds of making the right decision, made me know that it was God's doing. It was as though He was courting me - making me know He is proud of what He made in me - even when I'm not.
A few months ago, I taught a class on planets and the solar system. In completing research for the class, I rediscovered that there are thought to be billions of other galaxies aside from ours. However, from as far as scientists have been able to find in our universe, no other planet in any planetary system of which we know, is able to sustain life. There are very definite, very finely tuned and balanced, very particular sets of perfect circumstances that have to be in place in order for life to be sustainable. Earth seems to be the only planet of which those things are true. I found myself wondering why God would go to the trouble of creating all those other galaxies if He only intended to place life on one, small planet - third rock from the sun. I have concluded that it is because He wanted to give us a very real understanding, maybe when we need it most, that what that placard I bought several years ago was saying, that He loves each of us as if there were only one of us. Although there are billions of people on our planet, He provides carefully for the needs of (and desires an intimate fellowship with) individual people. Similarly, as there are billions of star systems, planets, etc. in the universe, He chose just one on which He would accomplish His purpose of companionship and redemption. The relief it provides me to know I'm not a cosmic mistake (and neither is the planet on which I live) is simply unquantifiable. The blessedness I feel from knowing that God cares for the silliest things in my life - that He's fixing even those ridiculous insecurities and healing those long-set-aside hurts - is beyond my ability to put into words.
The absurdity that God cares about what I wear or my outward appearance doesn't escape me. However, I think there was more to it than that, at least in my case. I think it was because He knew that I cared so much about it, that He was choosing to show me that my worth was much more than what I see in the mirror each day, or what Mark's co-workers see standing next to him at a Christmas party, or what a hairdresser sees when I sit in her chair, or what an 7th grade boy saw when I sat in front of him in Bible class... it is determined by Him alone.
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