There she was again. I kept running into this woman I was acquainted with long ago. As she walked away I commented to my daughter, “What is up with that mullet? She’s kept her hair like that forever. Who would do that?”

I did not even bless her heart.

The following week, David and I went out to eat. My friend Melanie and her hubba Dennis sat across from us. I kept admiring Melanie’s bangs. She is just so pretty. At the end of our dinner, she took a picture of me and David. As I looked at the picture, I really hated my very high forehead. Then without warning it happened. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with bang envy.

You need to know this about me.

I have cut my own hair for many years.

I know. It’s similar to the man who is his own attorney and therefore has a fool for a client.

But in my defense, every time, and I mean EVERY TIME I get a professional cut, they forget to allow for my extreme natural curl. At the end of the shearing, they whip me around in the chair to view my loveliness in the massive mirror. And EVERY TIME I wish I had spent my money on therapy instead … or perhaps a hat.

Good grief.

Then I leave them a nice tip, and vow NEVER to step into another hair salon as long as we both shall live … me and my hair.

So annyyywayyy…

I decided I would cut me some bangs.

But I forgot to allow for my extreme natural curl. Since I didn’t cut the back, just my bangs, suddenly I had a mullet.

I do not even deserve a “bless your heart.” That’s what I get for being critical.

A mullet.

No doubt it was punishment for my haughty words. I wore it like that for two whole days. Factor in the humidity and it fast became a fuzzy mullet. David never said a word. That is why we have remained married for forty years. The man knows when to keep silent.

One morning I decided that everyone around me had suffered enough. With scissors in hand, I determined to correct the situation.

I asked God for help. Deep in my soul I heard, “It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.” So I quit trying to straighten my bangs and allowed them to curl all willy nilly the way God intended.

Apparently my transgression was worse than a two-day penance. For now I am sporting a much shorter curly doo. Even my two year old grandson, who says very little, pointed at my fuzzy head and commented a long slow, “UH-oh …”

I imagine that I will bump into my mullet friend again soon. As she walks away she will probably shake her head and wonder, “What is up with that afro? She looks like Richard Simmons. Who would do that?”

I hope she will at least be kind enough to bless my heart.

 

Lynna Clark lives and writes in Salisbury.