Chapter Seventeen
Bad Haircut
By late October I was convinced that I should cut my hair, which had been long and straight with no bangs since middle school. A few of my new friends, particularly my choir friend Tiahna, had told me I should go for a fresh, new look now that I was in college. Tiahna had a really cute, short pixie cut, and it looked fabulous on her. She looked just like a supermodel.
I was ready to do it. I made my appointment with my mom’s hair stylist back home. I would go home on Thursday, get my haircut, and stay home for the Halloween weekend.
I sat in the stylist’s vinyl chair, my legs sticking to the seat, and watched her slice through my locks. Uh…this is bad, I thought. I just knew it was going to be a total disaster. Another heap of beautiful hair fell to the floor. Oh, no.
Somehow I ended up with a frizzy, shoulder-length shag—nothing like the picture I showed her. Half my hair was gone. When I came home from the salon, I was self-conscious. After my mom saw me, I knew I was doomed.
“You look like a shaggy dog!” she hollered. “That’s not what I told her to do!”
“Mom! You told her what to do? That is so not cool!”
I ran upstairs and lay in bed crying for two hours. Then I took a shower and attempted to style my hair on my own. It was useless. I would do anything to have my long silky hair back on my head.
The next day was Halloween, and even though I was embarrassed to go out in public, I drove to my old Christian high school to visit my teachers and pick up an economics project I needed. I purposely waited until students were meandering off campus at the end of the day in order to avoid critical eyes.
First, I went to my AP economics class, gave my teacher a hug, and picked up my project. Next I headed to the science building to see my favorite teacher, Mrs. F.
I hated Mrs. F. when I first met her. She was way too strict, and if you talked in her class, she’d give you the evil eye. But as time went on, she disciplined me and forced me to do my best. She pushed and prodded my intellect for two years, and I grew to love her.
At the beginning of my senior year, I wrote a paragraph about how God protected me from anorexia—even though it had a hold on me for a while, God never let me go too far. Mrs. F. called me to her desk one day after class. Tears formed in her eyes as she starting whispering, looking at me as if the impossible had happened.
“My daughter—she’s 11—her coach just told me she is struggling with bulimia. I keep asking myself what I did wrong.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m sure you did nothing wrong,” I said, not knowing if that was true or not. My own struggle was definitely a sort of cry for attention, for my own mom’s approval, and for a hug from my dad. I wanted someone to notice and care if I withered away.
“How did you get through it?” she asked me. She took a tissue from her desk and wiped under her eyes over and over again so I would never see a teardrop fall. As awkward as it was, I felt honored that she would open up to me. My heart softened toward her so much. She was actually a real person.
“Honestly, it was only because I had a Bible study group where I could talk about it,” I said. “I couldn’t talk about it with my mom, for some reason.”
She looked disappointed. “She doesn’t have a group like that. But maybe I will look for one.”
I gave her a big hug.
“Everything is going to be OK,” I told her, because sometimes that’s the thing people say when they feel bad. “I will pray for her and for you,” I said, even though I would probably forget.
But I didn’t forget. For the rest of senior year, Mrs. F. was a role model and academic mentor for me. We had a new understanding of each other. She would ask me how I was doing, and I would stay after class to hear the updates on her daughter. And I did pray for her. It felt good to get my mind off of myself and pray for someone else.
Of course, bad haircut or not, I had to visit Mrs. F. When I walked into her classroom, I hardly recognized her because she was dressed as a witch for Halloween.
“Hello!” I called.
It took her a second to recognize me as well. “Miriam!” she cheered. “It’s so good to see you!” She gave me a big hug.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, looking at the clock. “I have to run to a meeting.” We walked out the door together.
At that exact moment, Paul Greer was walking down the hall, carrying a huge surfboard. Our eyes met, and we both stopped with a jump.
“Miriam! What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here? With a surfboard?”
“Oh, you two know each other?” Mrs. F. asked.
“Yes, we go to the same church,” I said, choosing my words carefully.
“Paul is doing a great job here as our new health teacher,” she said.
“Oh, I see. And let me guess, you are dressed as a surfer.” He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.
“That’s right.”
“I gotta run! Wonderful to see you, Miriam!” She gave me one last hug goodbye and flew down the hall on her broomstick.
I was left alone with the man of my dreams, and he was now a teacher at my private Christian high school.
“You didn’t tell me you were applying to teach here,” I said, trying to appear unaffected.
“It was a last-minute idea,” he said.
“It’s crazy!” I said.
“You’re telling me! I’m the girls’ cross-country coach too. What a nightmare.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“It’s not going as I expected,” he said modestly. “Being in charge of a team of girls when you’re single is not a good idea.”
“They are in love with you,” I laughed.
“Either that, or they hate me,” he said. “Sometimes it looks the same. Listen, where are you parked? Can I take you to your car?”
“I’m in the student lot.”
“OK, if you want to walk with me to the faculty lot, I’ll put this board in my truck and drive you to your car.”
It was eerie to walk on campus with Paul and his surfboard. We treaded to the teacher parking lot where he showed me his new black truck.
“Hey, you got the car I said I wanted!” I exclaimed as he loaded his surfboard in the back. “And you even got the color I wanted.”
“You have good taste,” he said. I couldn’t help but wonder if he got the car to impress me.
I hopped in the passenger seat. The smell of leather seduced me. We drove to the student lot where my car was alone at the top of the hill.
For a few moments we lingered with the engine running.
“Can we talk for a little bit?” I asked. I did not want to leave him.
“Sure.” He turned the key and the truck settled into the blacktop. “I just have to be careful. It might look like I’m sitting here with one of my students.”
“There’s no one here. Besides, I’m not a student.”
It was quiet for a moment while I tried to collect my thoughts.
“We haven’t talked for a while. How is everything?”
“Great. How is APU?”
“Wonderful. Amazing. It’s the perfect place for me to be.”
“You got the Cal Grant?”
“Yes! Such a miracle from God!”
“So no student loans?”
“Nope. All grants and scholarships.”
“That is a miracle,” he agreed.
“I’m taking a 300-level Shakespeare class this semester,” I bragged. “And public communication, New Testament Bible, physical science, choir, and voice lessons.”
“That brings me back,” he said. “You are living the best days of your life right now.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.” It was a white lie. “What about you? Are you dating anyone?”
“I actually kind of am,” he said. “I met this girl online. She’s from around here. Can you b
elieve that?”
“And?” I was trying to play the role of best friend so I could get info.
“She is really nice.”
“What’s she like?”
“She is a ballet dancer like you.”
“Oh my gosh. Is she pretty?”
He laughed. “Yes, she is pretty.”
“Do you like her?”
“Do I like her? I’m not sure.”
I wasn’t too worried. To me, meeting someone online was totally dumb. It would never work out. I fiddled with the zipper on my purse. “Do you remember when we said we would put things in the Lord’s hands? You know, things between you and me?”
“Yeah.”
“What have you been thinking about that?”
“Truthfully, I haven’t been thinking about it.” He must have seen me cringe. “You are off at school. You are beautiful and fun and everything, but …”
“But what?”
“But I just don’t know, Miriam. I don’t know what God wants for me. I have to wait on him.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“I’m waiting for God to show me if it’s you, or her, or someone else. I don’t have any other answer for you.”
Me or her? Her or me? Or someone else? How could he even say that? Why didn’t he know what he wanted?
“I better go,” he said, while I searched for something else to say so I could spend more time with him. But it was useless. He had to go.
When I got into my car, Paul waved and drove down the street. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw my hair. I’d forgotten about my hideous hair. Paul hadn’t said a word about it. He must have thought it was a zombie Halloween wig. It matched the mascara that had run underneath my eyes. I’m such a freak! I’m such an ugly loser!
Back at my house, I unleashed all my anxiety at my mom.
“Mom, you are evil! Your stupid hair lady ruined my hair! It’s your fault I look like a shaggy dog!”
“Oh, Miriam …”
“You love to ruin my life!”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong? My life is wrong. I have a crazy wacko for a mom. It’s your fault Paul doesn’t like me anymore! I hate you! I hate you!” I screamed, out of control.
“Listen to you! And you think it’s me who’s crazy!”
I slammed the door of my room and bawled into my pillow.
Later that night my dad brought me a cup of hot tea.
“Your hair looks good,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
When I fell asleep, I dreamed that I was screaming as loudly as I could in my mom’s face—screaming so she would listen to me, so she would understand how I felt inside, so she would change. She just stood there staring back at me like a statue.
I didn’t leave my room for the rest of the weekend.