When he asked me to cut his hair, I knew it might be the first sign my husband was falling into a fashion abyss from which he might never emerge. What would be next, black socks with sandals?
It wasn’t like Joe didn’t know about my subpar haircutting skills. He’d witnessed my “handiwork” when I tried cutting our sons’ hair before they got old enough to care what they looked like. It wasn’t pretty. Why on earth would he ever entrust his head to me?
But being the dutiful wife I am (I’ll repent later for telling that whopper), I agreed to honor his request and give it a try. I dug out our ancient hair clippers, ceremoniously flung a sheet around my husband’s shoulders, and went to work.
Mowing that first path across the top of Joe’s head was scary. I had no idea what kind of havoc a #3 clipper guard might wreak. Was I about to make my husband look like a senior member of a skinhead gang? I was already plotting how I could keep him hidden in our house until a real barber could fix my mess.
My barbering will certainly never earn Joe a spot on a GQ cover, but I guess it’s passable. I wouldn’t say I’m adept with the old clippers yet—that bit around the ears still intimidates me—but he seems happy enough with the results and I know he’s happy about the money it’s saving. After all, if I cut his hair for a zillion years, we may save enough money to offset the cost of the stump grinder, wood chipper, and various other tools, tractors and farm toys that now fill our barn.
But there’s one thing about this whole barbering gig that bugs me: As my skills, lame though they may be, have improved, Joe’s expectations have increased, too, and his complaints seem to be increasing in frequency and intensity.
“Be sure to cut up and not down with the trimmer so it doesn’t pull my hairs! Don’t brush the hair off with your hands—use the brush! Owwwwww—be careful with those scissors!”
I mean, this was HIS idea, not mine. I told him I didn’t know what I was doing. He was the one who was so incomprehensibly confident and insistent about my ability to do this.
When he starts fussing while I’m working on his coiffure, I don’t know what to do except sweetly apologize and remind him that the pointy-ended comb I’m using would make a good prison shiv. I truly am sorry when I occasionally nip an ear or pull a hair, but one does get what one pays for.
The Lord has used this haircutting experience to teach me a bit about how He must feel when I ask Him to do something and then try to micromanage how He goes about doing it. When the answer to a prayer begins to feel uncomfortable or even downright painful, boy, do I fuss.
How many times, for example, do I piously ask God to make me more like Jesus and then start whining the minute that process gets uncomfy? What do I expect? How can I learn patience unless I experience circumstances that try my patience? How can I learn longsuffering without suffering for a long time? How can I learn humility unless my ego is painfully obliterated?
When we ask God to do something, it’s impossible to know exactly what His answer will look like, but we can know He is always good and His ways are always perfect, even when they hurt. And you can be thankful for this: His answer definitely won’t include me coming at you with hair clippers.