I cut my hair three years ago. And then again today. Fifteen inches off the length to send to a little girl who has lost her hair. I do not know this girl. And yet this morning, right before my haircut, I washed my hair and cried. I didn’t cry so much because I was lobbing off a good portion of my hair; although I will admit I have come to identify to some extent with my hair. My long hair has been a sort of trademark for me as Vicar of St. Paul’s, Tombstone in that it grew so long I could only braid it to the side. But it went well with my cowboy boots and was befitting for the Donkey Dash and suited my being referred to as “Ma” Rose. And so, I identified with my hair to some extent, and so, I did have second thoughts about hacking away at it. But that is not why I wept in the shower.
I wept in the shower because I prayed. I prayed for the little girl who would receive my hair having lost her own. I prayed that whoever she was she would be blessed. That God would grab hold of her and never let her go. That in some mystical way the wisdom of God would pass to her through this hair. This hair that accompanied me through the joy of my ordination, through the trial of the pandemic, through the loss of my Father, the loss of my brother, the loss of my dog, the loss of multiple dear parishioners, through burials and weddings and worship services, through hours upon hours of meditating upon the scriptures in order to pen sermons, through even a baby baptism … I prayed somehow my hair would strengthen this girl to overcome any obstacle instilling within her an undefeatable joy in the same manner my God has been my covering, my shield, and my very great reward.
I cut my hair for this unknown girl. But God knows her. And so, I pray this hair makes her feel beautiful on the outside while God makes known to her that she is beautiful on the inside.
H.D. Anyone 