As a young boy growing up in the 70s, I had certain expectations concerning my hair, which resembled a tangled mop long lost in the recesses of the closet.
We were pretty sure that our generation invented long hair and many of us worked hard at avoiding barbers to protect our legacy. Yesterday's hair is today's tattoo, more or less.
Length was never my concern or goal. My hair was more into winding up like the springs of a jack-in-the box rather than cascading past my shoulders. At some point, the weight of my deep waves and unruly curls would give way to such chaos that no amount of proper grooming would tame it.
Enter my father, who was a product of the early 20th Century and a proud veteran of World War Il. He had been programmed to have a strong aversion to hair of any length. Hair was a foe to be vanquished, especially if it became measurable on a child bearing his last name.
You might assume a fair amount of conflict arising from this generational divide and you would be correct. In the third grade, I mistakenly believed that I had won a battle of attrition over this subject, having grown an impressive mass of mane that resembled the moss growing in the oak trees in my neighborhood, minus the gray, of course.
One Saturday morning, I arose to a delightful bowl of Cocoa Puffs, hoping to spend my day free of homework or other obtrusive responsibilities. My father had other plans. I soon found myself sitting in Zipperer's Barber Shop, in Clyattville, Ga., awaiting my execution. This barber was considered the Terminator where hair was concerned and he was in no mood to disappoint my father.
He seemed to think the tasty slice of Juicy Fruit gum he offered me was going to sooth the loss of my trophy hair but he was wrong. While my dad made some mention of my resemblance to Shirley Temple, all I knew was that I was becoming dreadfully aware of my near-bare scalp and ears that I hadn't seen in a while. They now seemed to extend strangely beyond reasonable limits. I was certain that if I encountered a strong breeze, I could take flight.
Flying away was exactly what I wanted upon my return to school. My military-grade haircut created enough fodder for humiliation and teasing to last me a lifetime. Every minute of the school day seemed to last a decade and the rush of the cool afternoon breeze as it whipped mercilessly against the barren landscape of my scalp seemed to taunt me even further.
A few of my actual friends did rally to my defense and began shielding me from the barrage of jokes being told at my expense. By the time the last bell rang for the day, I felt as if I had been released from Alcatraz.
Today, as I listen to my children discuss their days at school, I am reminded just how harsh the school environment can be. But, such occasions are necessary for real friendship to be appreciated and to see God move on your behalf when it seems you are stuck. My true friends have always come through for me and my kids are learning the same lessons.
My daughter's class can create its fair share of drama, which sometimes leads to hurt feelings. A couple of the boys in the class have taken it upon themselves to be the official serenaders of peace, pulling out a catchy tune for the sad faces that inevitably appear. Part of their lyrics relay an important message: "Every little thing is gonna be alright." (Picture, perhaps, a little Jamaican vibe here)
Their humorous songs unlock some smiles pretty quickly and the simplicity of their message carries important truth for all ages. A reminder to not sweat the small stuff is invaluable. The big stuff is always over our heads, no matter how much hair we have, so that leaves us with only the choice to worry or trust that God can handle our greatest dilemmas.
It's in these tough spots that God promises to stick closer than a brother for whatever temptation we are facing. It doesn't matter whether we are facing an enticing sin or if we are being bombarded with thoughts of inadequacy or depression. Both are forms of temptation to live differently than God intended.
No matter what form of temptation comes our way, the Lord promises to provide a way out. In reality, He is the way out. His presence comes equipped with the atmosphere of Heaven, where wayward cravings and lowly thoughts bow their knees before Him.
Sometimes, we just need to be reminded to invite God into the mess that can be our lives, without offering any pretense that we understand how we got there. We just need to invite Him in. The invitation is all He needs. He is ready for the bad haircuts or the worst the world has to offer.
Once we learn to rest in the faithfulness of God, He will have us humming with confidence that "every little thing is gonna be alright."