Stranded high on a cracking vinyl cushion, I tried not to blink, eyes filling with regret. I’d picked the pixie cut after browsing waiting-room Glamour magazines, but watching six inches of my dark locks lopped off, I thought, Mistake, and as the minutes passed, Disaster. Attractive hair is oxygen to a thirteen-year-old, and my looks defined my nascent personhood. It’s easy to forget the Lord values the heart when living in a community of “mortals look[ing] at the outward appearance” (1 Samuel 16:7).
This began my hair battles, evidence of my feelings of self-loathing. As soon as I got home, I tried fixing the cut by plastering pink Scotch hair-set tape on every wavy chopped tress in futile attempts to get my natural texture to stay down. This proved to be a disaster, showing in the mirror as an odd bubble-gum-pink crown of Band-Aid-sized strips above a tear-streaked brown face. . . . [see more]