sassy pixie

At my local Starbucks this morning, the baristas stared at my hair. I ran a hand through it, trying to figure out why. It’d been a month (or two) since my last soy latte, and I’d gone from shoulder-length to pixie. Grinning wryly, I said, oh, yeah, different, huh?

It really is. I went in for a trim, and came out… shorn. With magical cheekbones and bigger eyes. Anne Hathaway, after losing most of her hair for Les Miserables, said short hair gave her less to hide behind. It’s true. I find myself finding fewer reasons not to talk with people.

Me. Penultimate introvert, Trek geek. I talk to/with people. Voluntarily. Seriously.

It’s hair. I have less of it now. It’s not a big deal.

Except it sort of is. When I got my cartilage piercings done, people with more exotic body art started talking with me. We had a point of commonality, an inkspot of community. My haircut’s like that.

One of the baristas said it was sassy. My pastor’s wife (the one who went to a BBQ in the African tundra with a fence between her and the lions) said it took courage she didn’t have.

Maybe it did. 

The first swipe of razor wasn’t so bad. Looking down at curls I didn’t know I had was. Each red-brown circle reminded me of pews I sat on as a kid, pastors bellowing about the glory of God in Southern accents, about the wages of sin. And if you cut your hair like a boy, you’re going to hell.

There’s my not-so-pixie-sized secret. I was honestly scared if I got my hair cut short (like I’ve wanted to do since my first one ever – at 16), I’d break some rule God couldn’t deal with. He'd freak out, all holy anger and shaking mountains.

I, my short hair, and unforgettable sin would be cast out forthwith. 

So I hid. Behind my long hair and self-imposed rules, believing the voices telling me God loved me... as long as I was complacent.

But love isn’t love if it has demands attached. And I’ve not ever doubted God loves me more than.. well, honestly? Way more than I think He should, or even understand why He would.

See, I know me. I know the choices I make aren’t always as easily fixed as a bad haircut. I know I cling to familiar and safe first, always. I know I run. 

And I hide.

But there’s this weird thing that happens. God lets me. I hide, thinking life has a pause button or can be TiVo’ed to the better stuff; that what I do (or don’t do) doesn’t matter.

And God waits for me to come back. There’re consequences, like portions of time I can’t recover. But I can come back.

It’s not what I expected, this faith-walk. But it seems to be exactly what I need.

Behold, I be a sassy pixie.