To the Stylist Who Butchered My Daughter’s Hair

8:50 PM Unknown 0 Comments

Before I could foster a reaction, I remembered the picture I saw that morning. The one of the toddler’s body washed up on the Turkish shore. Heartbreaking. I closed my screen and sent up a prayer for his innocent soul and his heartbroken people. What else could I do from here? In the face of such devastation, any act seems too small.
But I know one thing. This world is maxed out on the negative. We need more grace. More compassion. More love. And not just for the big things. For little things too. Little things like bad haircuts.


I took a deep breath. I bet you saw me holding back my own tears. I wanted you to know that they weren’t about you. I wanted to tell you that my horrible day capped by this horrible haircut just got pressed into perspective by the mental image of a drowned toddler and all that his death represents.
Now that’s a crisis. This, my dear, is nothing.
And I told you as much. I said it was okay. It’s hair. It grows. “Compared to rest of the world’s problems, this is small potatoes.” It was all I could say without opening a flood gate and pouring my heart all over the floor of your salon.
Because I carry some heavy burdens these days. I bet you do too. We know nothing of each other’s battles.
Reese started asking questions. “Mommy, what’s wrong with my hair? Something’s wrong. I can tell.” I told her that you made a mistake but it would be okay. I knew our reactions would dictate hers, and she stayed calm because we stayed calm.
You said you wouldn’t charge me and I said I appreciated that. Before I left, I handed you a tip. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but it felt like the right thing to do in the moment. I guess I just wanted you to know that I forgive you. It was a mistake. People make mistakes.


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