The Hair Whisperer

"Patience is a willingness, in a sense, to watch the unfolding purposes of God with a sense of wonder and awe, rather than pacing up and down within the cell of our circumstance." -Neal A. Maxwell "Patience"

We call him Lady Fingers. The first time I went to see the Hair Whisperer, also known as Sam, his assistant was a tall brunette Asian woman. When I came home, my roommate Elle asked me if Lady Fingers had washed and dried my hair.

In New York, there are stylists like Sam the Hair Whisperer, whose only job entails coloring and cutting. I wouldn't say it's thankless, since that's really what you pay the big bucks for. Then there are the assistants, whose job it is to wash out the color, shampoo and condition, then dry the hair after the stylist is done trimming it. THAT is a thankless task, as they are often yelled at if they aren't immediately at beck and call, and their real talent lies in the use of their hands.

"Lady Fingers??" I asked Elle, somewhat intrigued. She looked up from her laptop. "Yeah. Well...I don't know his name but that's what I call him. His fingers are long and slender like a woman's and he gives the best head massages of your life."

I've since had Lady Fingers the past two times I've gone to get my hair done and it's changed life as I know it. The last time was a little over a week ago, and I had spent the morning playing lots of tennis. By the time Hair Whisperer had painted my hair for an hour and it was time for Lady Fingers to wash it out, I was already in dreamland.

I agree that women are complex and often confusing. But here's a little hint: we LOVE to have our hair touched. It's weird, I know. It doesn't really make sense either. I'm not sure why that sensation matters so much, but three hours of having someone play with my hair and I'm practically comatose. A Hair Whisperer that tames, fixes, and beautifies our locks into a lustrous shine. I actually get goosebumps. It's unreal how good it feels. So there I am, Lady Fingers is shampooing my hair and interspersing it with scalp massages and I know I'm done for. I can barely think straight, my head feels fuzzy, and I promptly fall DEAD ASLEEP. It's a good thing he let me sit (read: snore) for an extra long time to deep condition. Just call me sleeping beauty. Maybe the two hours of tennis in the morning helped wear me out.

Men often wonder how women could spend 3 hours in a hair salon. What could possibly take that long?! That sounds so boring! But-- it's not. It's the female equivalent of escaping to the man cave. There's socializing as everyone comments on the latest in celebrity gossip. There's self esteem boosting in the form of compliments on how perfectly your new hair frames the shape of your face, or how "natural" the coloring is. And then there's physical touch as Lady Fingers and Hair Whisperer comb, brush, paint, wash, massage, and then tease your hair. And then you walk out feeling like a new woman.

I've been telling people for weeks now that August is my month of "patience." I just knew it, right from the start, that this month would offer many opportunities for patience, a skill set I have that is currently developed to the level of a five year old child. But I'm working on my endurance for patience and running the "marathon of life" as Paul referred to it. I've decided that each month I'm going to choose a topic of improvement (this month is patience, out of necessity not choice) and read talks on that topic/practice to help myself improve.

I was reminded, on my road of patience this month, that life is most definitely a team sport. Just when I'm beginning to think I can handle everything All By Myself, I get a reality check. Renters in NYC, you know exactly what I mean. Qualifying to rent an apartment in NYC is a long and painful process. You have to show that you make 40X the monthly rent. If you and your roommates don't quite make That requirement, you have to provide a guarantor that makes 80X the monthly rent. Meanwhile, 40 people behind you are trying to steal the apartment out from under you. May be the most fun I've had in a while, don't all rush at once to get in on this action.

First one roommate, then the other, said their dad's couldn't be a guarantor. That left me. I was already groaning...and up a creek if we had no other guarantor. The one person left to ask was my dad, the guy who when Wal-Mart first started asking customers to input their zip code at checkout, began ranting about the patriot act. (I still have NO clue what that is...) All because they asked for a zip code. This was 200 times worse. Credit checks, proving actual income, providing bank statements...the list went on and on.

It turns out my dad loves me a whole lot more than the patriot act, hallelujah, and submitted to a painfully intense process to help me get the apartment I wanted. (We're still waiting to hear back, more patience, what a shocker). But the experience humbled me, to realize that just when I try to do everything all by myself, I'm reminded that I still need help from others. I thought about the experience with my dad and how willing he was to help me. He sent me out on my own, but always ready to help me, knowing that periodically, I'll need his help. I wonder if that's how God feels too, when we become independent and think we've done everything on our own, only to encounter an obstacle that brings us back to our knees and back to him to ask for help. Patiency begets humility. I'm grateful for it.

waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting patiently before I turn 80,

Lo.