How I Almost Got My Head Shaved

I've mentioned Bledi before--he's the guy with the scissors. I go to him and his fancy salon for the best haircut ever. I really don't go there to get into theological discussions. Apparently, though, he likes to argue with me, because he keeps bringing it up. I guess we feel more comfortable with each other than when I wrote about him last. Our discussions are still not always entirely helpful ones. Today's mostly went like this:

Bledi: But see, I look at science.

Me: I look at science, too.

Bledi: No you don't.

Me: Yes I do.

Bledi: No you don't . . .

You get the idea.

The last time I was there maybe our discussion was a little more intelligent, but he got told off by his boss later, evidently, for talking too loudly with me about controversial religion-laced subjects.

He said it's a bummer I'm not hanging out with the Milk Guy anymore, because they probably would've gotten along. You know what? I think they would. And I wouldn't even have minded hanging out with the two of them together, although probably I would've felt a bit beleaguered by the end of it. I find these discussions, if not always stimulating, at least entertaining.

You know what drives me crazy, though? The current fad of blaming the spread of Christianity on some combination of the emperor Constantine, conspiracy theory and politics. Even if Constantine's conversion was not genuine (and I don't really see how anyone can prove it was or it wasn't), if Jesus had needed some power-mongers to spread His good name, the Church would've died out long before Constantine, and there would've been nothing to spread. I think it mostly drives me crazy because there is usually so little thought that goes into this accusation--it's just something somebody heard somewhere, very few people check out the facts, and they get exactly as dogmatic about it as any Christian might get about, say, the divinity of Christ.

This came up today, too. I got a little heated. I still got the best haircut ever, but next time I decide to get heated, I'm going to make sure I'm not in the hair stylist's chair. You know. Just in case . . .

Back to Work

I had no idea punching orders into a cash register or swiping credit cards was so physically draining. All I had was a five-hour shift, and I only "rang" for half of it, but my arm feels like it wants to fall off. Good thing I didn't have to lift anything. ('Cause I can't. And am forbidden to.)

Also--why did only three customers ask me where I had been? Is it the haircut? Do they really think I was away for two-point-five weeks because I got my haircut?

Sparrows

Now that everyone has very cleverly made the points, in the comments, that I made myself in the actual conversation, I'm going to reiterate them all here.

The first thing I suggested in my chat with the Milk Guy was that, if there is indeed a God, He would not be subject to time, and so therefore His helping out with a shopping trip wouldn't exactly waste any for Him. But I also got the sense that asking for help with something as seemingly shallow as a shopping trip was perceived as just a little audacious, beyond the issue of time.

I conceded that, say, praying about my cancer diagnosis is probably more important that praying about the results of my shopping trip.

("You think?" said the Milk Guy.)

But it seems to me that if there's a God, it would either make sense for Him not to care about anything that concerned us, or to care for everything that concerns us. He's God, not us, so who decides where the line is regarding Important Enough for God? He has every right not to care about my shopping trip--but given my relative importance in the universe, I would expect that if He didn't care about that, my ex-tumour wouldn't be that big of a deal to Him either. In which case I should just not bother to pray at all.

Since, however, I believe that God does care (based on my understanding of the Bible), then who's to say He doesn't care about my shopping trip as much as my healing? I remember when I was a teenager and first became aware of I Corinthians 10.31: "So whatever you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God." I remember feeling completely flummoxed by the concept; how could I glorify God by eating a sandwich? Of course I know now that there are a lot of ways to live that verse out in a lot of contexts, and I feel it applies here, too.

Sure, I can pray about everything so much that I paralyse myself and become incapable of making the simplest of decisions. But I think in this case, asking God to give us a successful shopping trip opened us up to being able to glorify Him in that shopping trip; as my mother pointed out in the comments, though God is not bound by time, we are. We had limited time and, in spite of a financial gift, limited resources, and to me it makes a whole lot of sense to talk to God about the endeavour first, so as not to waste what He had provided us with.

And that's another thing. Jesus told us not to worry about anything, particularly food and clothes, because our Heavenly Father knows we need them and He will provide them for us. But He did tell us to ask that same Father for good gifts. The Heavenly Father had already provided my mother and me with the means to supply these specific needs, so it seems a logical next step to ask Him to help us find the things He had, essentially, already given us.

("Fascinating," said the Milk Guy.)

I do recognise in myself a tendency to pray primarily for myself, and maybe one or two others who are particularly close to me. I don't think this is the right way to pray. I agree that there are much more selfless things to pray for than even my battle with cancer. But I don't think that means I should pray for the minutia of my own life less. I think I should just pray for everybody else more. If God clothes the flowers, and if He knows when a sparrow falls to the ground, and if it's true He wants a relationship with me, then it may be audacious to ask Him for a good haircut or something. But I believe He loves that kind of audacity, and in gratitude, I'm just going to keep telling Him about and asking Him stuff.

Costume Shopping

Some girls get to take their friends or sisters and shop for wedding dresses. I got to take one of mine and shop for wigs and scarves for when I go bald. I was hoping I would have one of those bride-to-be moments where (as when some pending brides see a dress, try it on and never have to look any further) I would see a wig that looked just great and not need to worry about anything else. That didn't really happen, though. I've never really gone shopping for a Hallowe'en costume (the times I've dressed up, I've made my own), but I suppose there might have been similarities to that sort of trip, too.

Anyway, Kristin was a good person to have on hand. We both agreed that the square bandanas tied in the back looked good, and that dark auburn hair is a great colour on me. It was a little hard to tell about wig styles exactly, because I currently have so much of my own hair, it ballooned all the wigs out to comical proportions. I think I found one I like, though, in said shade of auburn, and although I at first thought I wouldn't bother with wigs at all, if my insurance covers enough of this one I might go for it. Meanwhile, I shall definitely be stocking up on bandanas.

Afterwards, Kristin and I went and got dinner, drank imported ale/cider and talked about the implications of everything that's going on in my life right now. And about the infestation of critters in her and Jerry's apartment.

Nothing like a girl's night out.

Hair Today . . .

Right this second, I'm not feeling as upset about the likely chemo aspect of this whole process as I was. Still, I was a little startled at the strength of my reaction to the news that I have baldness in my future.

The funny thing is that I've never been much a fan of my hair. It never does what I want it to, and it's only within the last four years that I've found a hairdresser who can really cut it to my taste (but he's expensive, so I only go, like, twice a year). It is a strange, indeterminate colour and it's frizzy but never actually curls, and in moments of frustration I've been heard to burst out, "All right! That's it! I'm shaving my head!"

It's just . . . I never really meant it.

If you know me at all, you'll know that I am neither the most liberal nor the most conservative student of the Bible, and I don't really think that a woman's hair length reflects her salvation status. But I do kind of think Paul was onto something when he said "a woman's hair is her glory." Long or short, dyed or naturally hued, When I joked around with some of the guys at Starbucks about being bald for Christmas, they were sympathetic and still laughed at my jokes, but when I told 409-Caitlin, she practically started crying for me. Heather-of-Six cried for me at the news, too.

I know it's only temporary. And when it comes back, they tell me, it will come back curly. And maybe blonde. I used to be blonde. And I always wanted curly hair.

(One time I prayed that God would make my hair curly, but seriously? This is a little extreme. On the other hand, I suppose it might indicate that God really does listen to our prayers, and sometimes His answers include a big ol' long wait . . . And then . . . a really weird answer. Is this doing "more than all we could ask or imagine"?)

But the thing is, this is my hair. Like it or not, it's what I've had since I've had any. I've grown into it, and it has (though not always as I wanted it to) expressed something about me. Even when I've hated it, it has in a way been something of my "pride and joy." And so sometimes, when I think about it, I can't help getting a little sad.

Another Kind of TMI

Today Heather-of-Six and I talked to the Medical Oncologist, the Radiology Oncologist, and a Nurse Practitioner. (On Monday it was the Surgical Oncologist.) We liked all of them. Not so much everything they had to say, though.

Favourite Points:

1. Yesterday's MRI indicates that my lymph nodes seem to be clear. (We won't know that for sure until the actual surgery, though.)

2. There are all kinds of potential cosmetic alterations that I can have if I want, that even my less-than-satisfactory insurance will now pay for. Hah.


Unfavourite Points:

1. Yesterday's MRI indicates a surprise! Some sort of tiny, as yet undefined, nodule on my lung. Everyone is optimistic that this is scar tissue from some past infection, but since they found it, they have to check it out. Add a PET scan to my roster of tests, please . . . (Also note that everyone was previously optimistic that the nodule we all already knew about was benign.)

2. Apparently youth is not actually an asset in the whole cancer realm, for various reasons, one of which is that I might live long enough to get it again.

3. It is pretty well decided that I will have to have chemo. I find it somewhat troubling that the idea of losing my hair is more upsetting to me than the idea of, say, dying. Prepare for songs like "I'll Be Bald for Christmas" and other cheery anthems as the season approaches.

My brain doesn't really know what to do with all this data, and this evening, instead of exploding, I found myself both laughing and crying hysterically At The Same Time. It was like one of those days where the sun's out and it starts pouring. We had a day like that last Wednesday . . . when the only trouble I thought I was having was with my car.

Haircuts

Yesterday I went to Bledi's new salon so he could cut my hair. Bledi used to date one of our baristas, and after they broke up, we all knew him and so it was hard not still to be friends. He used to say I should go to him to get my haircut, so I scraped together my Starbucks tips and went, and since then I've kept scraping together spare change, because I've never had somebody cut my hair just the way I wanted it before Bledi. But he switched salons in January (about a week after my last haircut), and yesterday was my first visit to the new one. It's definitely a step up. Now I can say I not only have the best haircut of my life, but also the most expensive one. It's a good thing tips were really great last week.

At this new salon, you walk in the door and they offer you a choice of water, tea, coffee, beer or wine. It's "complimentary." I requested water, but seriously, if there's ever a next time and I have to pay as much for my haircut as I paid yesterday, I'm getting the wine. I don't care what time of day it is.

Along with the drinks, each client gets a brief scalp and shoulder massage before their shampoo. I really liked that part. Massages are definitely a great thing.

And then during the haircut, there is, of course, conversation. It helps that I already know Bledi. On the other hand, it means that our conversations are usually sort of the same, because we don't know each other that well. Mostly they're about how he's still with his girlfriend but they don't have that much in common and he isn't very happy, and how I'm still not with a boyfriend. Yesterday I told him about my book contract because it was something new to talk about, and because I thought he might be interested since he's Albanian. The first time he ever cut my hair, we talked about God, but he got caustic and belligerent and hurtful, and so, in spite of my frequent conversational propensities, I usually try to avoid the topic with him.

But yesterday I asked him if he had celebrated Easter. He laughed and said no but that he and his friends had made fun of the priest. He wanted to talk about the irony of the fact that "religious people" are always trying to "change" people, when the Bible doesn't actually tell you to go out and try to get people to believe in Jesus.

"Um, actually, it does," I said.

Then he wanted to talk about how the Qur'an doesn't tell you to go out and try to kill people.

"Um, actually, it does," I said.

Then he said something (the precise nature of which I forget) which was basically an open invitation for me to present the Gospel to him or something, and I didn't. I sat there while he snipped at my hair, fully aware that I really could say something and probably really should say something and that the something wouldn't be that hard to come up with. And I didn't say a word.

While I was sitting there rebelliously not saying a word, I was also trying to figure out why. I can talk about Easter to Zombie-Boy at Trader Joe's without much batting an eye. I can discuss Jesus and faith and life with The Item for hours. But not Bledi.

Of course, I don't really know Zombie-Boy, so there's nothing to threaten if either of us says something totally off-putting to the other. Who cares? I'm just there to do my grocery shopping, is all. And I do really know The Item. We have enough mutual trust that we can disagree with each other pretty vehemently (usually I'm the vehement one) and know it's still going to be okay. But Bledi? Bledi cuts my hair. I know him well enough not to want to jeopardise the acquaintance, but not well enough to trust that it won't be jeopardised. Talking about God makes him angry, and his anger is an unknown quantity to me. I don't want to risk, in this particular scenario.

I sat there, as he dried my hair, wondering what would have been the right thing to do, really. The Bible says to preach the word "whether the time is favorable or not." It wasn't. But I still didn't. Then again, when Jesus sent His disciples out evangelising the first time, He apparently felt there was a time when "unfavourable" was final. I've never known exactly what the balance is between those two approaches. But I'm not entirely sure I should be the one to decide when God's done giving someone second chances. I just don't know how to talk to Bledi. But maybe the point isn't whether or not I trust Bledi. Surely the point is whether or not I trust Jesus.