Hip Hair

I am neither young, cool, nor hip.
Have I ever been?
Young?
Yes.
At one time I was.
Cool and hip?
Not so much.

But, thanks to my friend, aka, The Stylist, for the past almost two years, forty-something-year-old uncool me has sported decidedly hip hair. Hair that shines. That moves when I walk. My husband likes my hair. My friends like my hair. I like my hair. In order to maintain this hair of mine, I see my friend, The Stylist on a regular basis. For two hours about every two months, The Stylists combs and colors, snips, shapes. And talks.

The Stylist is one interesting dude. He's a free spirit. Passionate about many things. He's way taller than six feet. Has a shaved head. Colorful tattoos. And a seeker's heart. We get into great discussions, The Stylist and I. We talk about life and death. Sin and suffering. Kids. Friends. What it means to be honest and true to oneself.

Lately, what we talk mostly about is God.
About God listening.
About us listening to Him.

The Stylist is getting surer and surer about God. About church, not so much.
Someday, I tell him, you might change your mind. But in the mean time while I'm wearing the cape and he's wielding the comb, The Stylist and I carry on.

Our own Come to Jesus meeting right there in the salon.