I believe in angels. Though some might find this admission somewhat amusing and slightly off balance, two very unusual encounters have been cemented in my memory around the time when I was thirty-something years old.First, for those who are unable to fathom the close relationship that can occur between a woman and her hairdresser, I'll just say that from my very early 20's until I was just shy of 32, I never allowed anyone else except one very experienced individual to get anywhere near my head with a pair of scissors. EVER. Translation: most people are clueless when it comes to cutting curly hair. And to prove my faithfulness, I'll add that when I moved from the general area of this particular hairdresser, I continued to schedule appointments to have my hair done even though I was living nearly two hours away.
Needless to say, a new marriage, a full-time job, and two very young daughters were making travel time increasingly difficult for it was a long and daunting drive to my hair appointments, and they seemed to be getting farther and fewer inbetween. But there was no alternative...until one day while I was drinking my usual cup of java in my father-in-law's coffee shop, when three much older but very lively and chatty, never seen before in my life women, clearly total strangers, spoke to me from their table and asked me about my family and my HAIRDRESSER.
Of course, I politely answered all of their questions, hardly wanting to offend the sweet little ol' ladies who were out and about and having a good time of it, even though their subtle inquisition had inwardly prompted me to contemplate the true condition of my hair and whether or not it looked totally whacked that day and how it must for them to ask me such a personal question. The most outspoken of the three proceeded to tell me that her daughter had very curly hair like mine and had been going for quite some time to a most wonderful hairdresser named Marie, whom they all agreed in unison, was an expert stylist when it came to curls, and that I should most definitely check out her shop which was just a ways down south. That's when they handed me a torn up piece of paper with Marie's phone number.
Definitely check it out I would not, and shortly after arriving home I tossed that piece of paper right into the trash without so much as a second glance, knowing how unimaginably difficult it would be for me to sever ties, long distance or not, with the one person who was responsible for making me look beautiful, (or so I had imagined) all of those years.
A couple of months went by. Being short on coffee, I made a quick trip to the coffee shop to pick up a few bags when I noticed the same three ladies---that I never imagined I would ever see again, sitting there at the table. I knew why they were there. I knew exactly what they were going to ask me, and they did, without the slightest hesitation.
"Did you call Marie?"
I was dumbfounded. And then the excuses came rolling off my tongue. "I've been too busy. My husband's working weekends. I wasn't due for a hair cut right now." That's when they handed me another piece of paper with Marie's phone number.
Well, I decided I'd better call Marie and introduce myself. I told her about my two encounters with these women and how I had obtained her phone number. I informed her of how highly she had been recommended. She penciled me down for the following month and I'm happy to report that Marie turned out to be a wonderful Christian woman who has been cutting my hair now for the past twelve years. Moreover, the drive is a mere hop, skip and a jump compared to the other. But while I was sitting in Marie's chair during our very first appointment, she confided in me that she had sorted through her whole list of clients, over and over again, basically racking her brain because she had no idea who this person with curly hair was, and that she had no recollection whatsoever of three elderly women, or knew of any customer that had a daughter with curly hair who would have given me a recommendation, much less her phone number.
I never saw them again.
No comments:
Post a Comment