What's in a haircut?

Last night Jay cut his hair. He was letting it grow for me, because I have this picture of him with long hair that I find sexy and we were seeing if he could achieve that look again. The plan went well for several months. I enjoyed his "luxurious hair" as we jokingly called it. Then, seemingly overnight, it all went awry. His hair was awful. It hung languidly on his forehead, and we determined that he had what we call a "Southern Frat Boy Haircut." This style is definitely characteristic of the South, and neither one of us like it. It is indolent, untidy and unflattering. (I realize as I write this that I should have taken a picture of it to include with this writing, but, alas, I did not have the foresight to do so. ) I'm not sure if a hairstlye can be indolent, but it lends that air to the person wearing the hair.

Today at lunch Jay came home to eat with me and Ruthie, and he said that his haircut has affected his attitude. He said he feels more intense, tougher, "meaner." I thought this was amusing but also interesting. That a tiny matter of a haircut can determine mood and demeanor, even personality. I thought about my hair, which has been mostly the same for the past ten years. Maybe that is why I am laid back, even keeled and not overly emotional. My hair is naturally curly and I have noticed that when I straighten it I feel prettier, and, strangely, more mature or polished. These are all musings and not supported by research. Of course, factors in our environment affect the way we feel and sometimes act. When I wear a dress I feel more feminine, when I wear sweats I feel relaxed and boyish. When it rains I feel like taking a nap or watching a romantic comedy.

We are changeable and unpredictable beings. Altered by our proximity to the sun or a word from our closest friend. Fickle and frail, we strut about full of our self importance but brought low when we catch our smallest toe on a coffee table leg. We find our wisdom confounded by a crying infant, our strength sapped by an errant cell. Yet in all this we know that there is a God who does not change. Immutable. Omniscient. These words are mammoth in their import and exclusive in their assignation. He is never confounded. His hand controls all the supposed whims of man and nature, things seen and unseen, things imagined and things never dreamed. He is preeminent. We can sigh, and rest, and trust. Raise our feeble hands, marvel that we are image bearers, and laugh, maybe ruefully, and let the weight fall off of our backs.