Eleanora

As I was cleaning up Christmas this afternoon, I stumbled across an old journal that was tucked away in a forgotten box. I have always been a keeper of journals. I have my Mum to thank for that - from an early age, she instilled in me the important power of words. Mum constantly reminded me that there are lessons to be learned from reading about your past struggles and former dreams - that someday, when looking back at my memoirs, I would grimace, or cheer, or cry, or laugh with my younger self.

Today, as I turned pages of girlish ramblings in my forgotten journal, I stumbled across one entry that struck me as humbling, an idea that I needed to be reminded of in this new year. It's not often that when looking through old journals, I find something that I want to share. Mostly, I cringe at my near-sightedness, or I blush at my simplicity. However, today I want to share an excerpt that still rings true some five years later....

September 22, 2007

"I can't recall whether her name was Eleanora or not, but I know that she was definitely the last person whose hair I wanted to cut and style. She was big and slovenly looking. A long scar stretched across her mouth that made it difficult to speak and swallow. Her hair was thin and greasy. After having scrubbed and shampooed her hair, her scalp still smelled horrible and it was the most disgusting yellow colour. She made me want to gag. I had completely run out of genuine pleasantries for Eleanora before even half of her hair cut was done. And then I heard how she had been diagnosed with cancer in June, which prohibited her from having a proper shower or bathing of any sorts. This was the first time that she was able to come back to the salon to have her hair done in months. She was so excited to cling to the one hope of fleeting femininity. The cancer had deformed and bloated her beyond attractive recognition. And yet, Eleanora was like a young girl, excited about curls and bows and princess-like fantasies. As she sat under the dryer, I went into the bathroom to scrub my hands of the filthy, greasy feeling her hair left. The last thing I really wanted to do was run my fingers through Eleanora's hair. Then it hit me. For so long, I had been praying that the Lord would give me a servant's heart. And God loved Eleanora. She was a beautiful princess in His eyes. He loved the sick. He healed the lepers. He was a servant. Guilt washed over me as I thought of how insensitive I had been to a truly broken woman. As I combed out Eleanora's curls, I took on the servant's heart. I overlooked her peeling scalp, her disfigured face, the smell that permeated her whole being. In the end, she turned towards me and barely whispered, "You're such a dear. Isn't it so encouraging when we meet followers of the Lord?" I didn't know what to say. I smiled and looked at the woman who had transformed into an angel sent from God to remind me that His love extends to every Eleanora this world knows."

Stylist Sisters

Most people would say that they have a close relationship with their hairstylist. Some would view their stylist as a friend, a confidant, even a therapist. They are the one person who you can count on to not only massage your scalp, style your hair, and update your looks, but also to give you completely undivided attention and a listening ear.

I'm lucky enough to have approximately six stylists like that. Having worked as a hairstylist myself, it's only natural that a fair number of my friends are also my former co-workers. These girls have been there for me during the normal and the mundane, but also for the shining moments:

Last night, I had the opportunity to sit in the stylist chair and let Cristina work her magic on my hair. It's always a strange feeling for me to be the "client" and not the "stylist" at the salon where I previously worked. (Check it out here: www.grottohairstudio.ca and www.youtube.com/user/grottostratford ) At the same time, however, it's like no time has passed. We talk "shop." We gossip. We laugh together. We pray. Sometimes we cry.

These girls, who are more sisters to me than anything else, are timeless friends.

Hannah and Joseph

As I mentioned before, I previously was a hairstylist. What people say about "Only my hairdresser knows!" really is true. For some reason, as soon as a client sit in your chair, you automatically become their best friend, whether they are young or old. Secrets are shared, tears flow and gossip is rampant between client and hairstylist. It is truly one of the most unique relationships I have ever experienced.

Being a hairstylist has changed me in a lot of ways. I view things differently. I learn to not take people necessarily at face value. I discover ways to accentuate hidden beauty. But most of all, I learn to be friends with extremely diverse people. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't miss that interaction with my clients.

What would surprise me the most would be how often God would reveal Himself to me through my clients. I came across an old journal entry I had written about a year ago that gives a little glimpse into my life as a stylist:

"Oh the beauty of child-like faith! Hannah was three years old, with fluffy blonde curls. She was perched on a booster seat, squirming, tilting her head this way and that while I tried to cut her hair, all the while chattering away incessantly. Every other phrase started off with, 'But why?' as she would scrunch up her nose in deep contemplation. Suddenly, she let out a big gasp, and her round blue eyes got even rounder.

'I have a movie about Joseph!' she squeaked.

'Oh ya?' I replied, smiling.

Hannah nodded her head vigourously.

'And he had brothers and his brothers SOLD him! And they threw him in a pit and they SOLD him!'

She looked intently at me for a proper reaction.

'Oh no!' I said. 'Did they throw him in a pit because he had a colourful coat and his dad loved Joseph more than them?'

Her eyes widened even more, shocked that I would know the same story.

'Yes! And they SOLD him! And he went far, far away and then his brothers came back and they became friends and they lived happily ever after. The end.'

Hannah was beaming, so proud that she had so accurately depicted the Joseph story.

After this vivacious little three-year-old left, I couldn't help but marvel at the transparency, the vulnerability, the pure excitement she had over one simple Bible story. God put Hannah in my chair today to show me His love and His faithfulness.

'Oh, God!' I cried out. 'Give me the courage and faith of Hannah - to proclaim Your love and forgiveness without shame. Give me the strength to cling to childlike faith. Help me to never forget that likewise, You SOLD Your Son - You SOLD Him! So that He could forgive me, and be my friend, and we could live happily ever after. The end.'"