Bare-headed Beauty

November 9^th—the day we all were anticipating in curiosity yet dreading due to the irrevocability. The day Mama would be marked obviously across her head with cancer’s ink stamp. The day her beautiful locks would be shaved and formed into a wig. Yesterday, once a hovering anxiety, now a moment of the past.

Mama has always been a woman of extraordinary physical beauty. The bite of aging has not marred her in the slightest. Wrinkles have not found their home across her brow, perhaps because she constantly tightens her facial muscles throughout the day in wild bursts of smiles and laughter. Yet, when the extraordinary is encountered with such frequency the danger is that it diminishes into the ordinary. Magnificence mixed with regularity many times turns to common. And so Mama’s beauty has become such a customary sight to my eyes often I am blinded to the rarity of her loveliness.

But not this week. This week my eyes awakened to absorb the radiance of her beauty, especially that seen in the glamor of her dark hair. For when the clock is ticking, racing, rushing towards a sudden end it urges the soul to grasp the glory of what always has been. The strands flying off her shoulder in the course of the wind. The slightest bounce of the layers with her every step. Elegant locks framing her cheeks when she bows her head in prayer. Even the adorable tousled frizz after a night upon her pillow. It is her covering. Her glory. And this week I treasured every ounce.

It is Friday morning and we set off to our destination—Anton’s Hair Company. Not the usual salon experience. A father-son business tucked away off the main road, hidden within the montage of other offices and professional services. Not to be noticed by the nearby traffic and average consumer. Its location is intentional—concealed to preserve the dignity of the hurting, the sick, the despondent that walk through the doors.

Leaving the driveway and I see Mama’s profile, eyes focused on the road before her. It is quiet. Solemn. Tense. I gently touch her shoulder and softly ask, “How are you doing, Mama?”

“I knew it wouldn’t hit me until today.” And tears replete slowly meander down her face stitching together in a tight bond the aching of her heart to mine. If pictures speak a thousand words, tears speak a thousand more. I look out the window to the maple leaves and back to Mama’s hair dark maple. And I watch autumn colors of red-orange fall and flutter from the branch of which they once adorned. Soon Mama’s locks will follow suit abandoning the head of which they graced. Leaves of glory and locks of beauty, gone in an instant.

And I search for a remedy to halt my choking thoughts—a prayer aloud not of crying, supplication, intercession, but…thanksgiving. Really? Is this my voice uttering words of thanksgiving minutes before Mama’s hair is chopped off? From where is this prayer coming? But before I have time to analyze its origin, a tangible presence of peace invades the vehicle and we all utter “amen” in agreement. In my head I rewind and play the words of the simple prayer.

“Thank you Jesus for residing within and going with us today. Thank you for your blood that covers every moment in perfect grace. Thank you…” So it continued. And it seemed as if the clock ruthlessly counting down the seconds to this day stopped. Time stood still in the melody of thanks. And all inner turmoil and disorder previously experienced vanished in the awareness that He is here, deeply embedded within, never to escape.

And I see the majesty of thanksgiving that slows time to see the microscopic blood stains of grace, His presence now, within the crevices of each second. And I think upon the mass and matter of life, composed of much more than just closely packed atoms and molecules. Life’s billions upon billions of particles burst with excessive, preposterous, stunning grace. Grace is life, life abundant, today. We inhale sweet, intoxicating grace in each breath and exhale joy-filled thanksgiving. And now my eyes are oriented on the reality of the Cross, more than just the center of our faith, but the lens of our vision through which we see everything else as it truly is—blood stained and beautiful.

And my anxiety for the day transforms into eager vigilance to see grace in the razor cutting away.

We arrive to Anton’s Hair and flood the father-son office with an entourage of estrogen—Mama, Grandma Lou, Cheryl (Mama’s bosom friend and pastor’s wife) and myself. Kurt, the son of the company, guides us to a small back room where Mama’s makeover will take place. We find our seats, Mama’s centered across from the mirror. We warmly encompass her as Cheryl offers another prayer. And I soak in the words spoken as I gently twirl Mama’s long coffee-strands around my index finger.

Memories swell inside. I am five again and run into Mama’s arms after falling off my bike and wounding my right knee. As I nuzzle my face into her shoulder she holds me close with one hand, and with the other she strokes my blonde locks. A touch of consolation. A gesture of tender sympathy. And seventeen years later, roles reverse. And I hope Mama senses the same comfort as her hair passes between my fingers now as I felt then as a child.

The prayer ends all too soon, Kurt sections Mama’s hair into numerous clips, holds one strand lightly between his thumb and four fingers, and the ring of the razor echoes throughout the room. It has begun. My heart skips a beat as the first strand on the back of her head is quickly freed from her scalp. Such frailty, threads thinly growing for years and then abruptly cut away in the blink of an eye. Like the fragility of life. Yet I was captivated, amazed, by the hands that worked so meticulously upon my Mama’s head.

Strand after strand Kurt delicately grasped, gently twisting the lock before the razor touched, and carrying it in both hands as if it was fine glass. He carefully laid each section of hair in a precise place upon a wire rack and made a note of where the specific section should be assembled in the wig. Every thread mattered to him. So methodical and intentional was his work. Such complexity yet his fingers danced in ease from years of experience in the trade.

Working from the back towards the front of her head, Kurt was deliberate in allowing the front strands to remain until the end of the process. He gradually eased Mama into her new look. For the majority of the procedure, Mama appeared the same from her vantage point while in the back the contour of her scalp progressively was being unveiled.

He understood; he knew the delight a woman’s hair provided her and therefore the decorum it needed in being removed. I initially thought Mama may experience shame from the loss of hair. Yet, Kurt seemed to crown her with dignity through his sensitivity and Mama’s self-esteem was not at all dampened.

The last of the strands was removed and Mama’s eyes focused on her altered reflection. She smiled sunshine; without her hair her grin appeared even more massive. She was perfectly beautiful.

After a fascinating method of developing a mold of Mama’s scalp, she positioned an adorable hat over a synthetic hair piece and we left the shop, allowing the master hands to resume his long day’s work of assembling the freed hair into a wig.

And so the party began…a brunch feast, an afternoon shopping, board game fun…and eight hours later we returned to Anton’s to collect the final product.

Kurt uncovered the wig and we were all left speechless. And this state of awe deepened as Mama secured the wig upon her head for the first time. It looked just like her, so natural and perfect, framing her face just right and falling upon her shoulders in the same place as before. Mama was overwhelmed with gratitude as she hugged Kurt goodbye walking out the doors for the second time that day.

In the car driving home I could not manage diverting my stare from soaking in the perfection of Mama’s wig. But I saw so much more than just hair fastened in place. I saw Divine Love redeem the smallest of concerns. Indeed He cares for the minutest details. He cares for each thread of hair, for He numbers them all; not one escapes His knowledge. He cares to position us down the road from a brilliant wig maker. He cares to provide the funds to preserve a treasured piece of Mama through His Body at Eastridge.

And perhaps this wig that I had once dreaded actually contains a bundle of blessings. In five years perhaps it will serve as an altar to which we return and reminisce of God’s faithfulness through the breast cancer journey. In ten years perhaps it is a preservation of time, freezing the effects of aging and greying to forever hold beauty from more youthful days. And in years I hope never arrive, perhaps it will offer comfort to my own future daughters who can forever remember their grandma by stroking her locks of glory as I once did.

And in this wig, I taste it again—grace outrageous. And I give thanks.