​102. The Dead in Their Eyes

The other day, I got my hair done. I was greeted with hardcore rap blaring in the salon, a story about my hairdresser’s daughter growing weed out in Missouri, another story about her hacker of a boyfriend, and two ladies who worked there and looked like they had a case of permanent side-eye while cyberstalking the new girlfriend of one of their exes.

The place felt dark and after my appointment, I cried.

My heart hurt for these people. It’s not a case of “well, at least I’m not like them.” It’s a case of knowing I very well used to be them.

Even worse in a lot of ways.

And it’s the insurmountable task of sharing a Savior who wants them despite the bravado, the permanent side-eye.

When I got there, the first thing my hairdresser said was, “We don’t give a *bleep* what anyone thinks. Hope you’re not offended by that.”

And I wasn’t. If there’s something refreshing about a nonbeliever, it’s their ability to be honest with themselves.

What got me though was when I asked her if rap was her favorite genre of music. “No,” she said, which meant she just liked blaring the curse words. She just liked doing what she pleased.

She just liked putting out the sound of that siren, and maybe she’s just waiting for somebody to notice.

So I’ll go again when my ends start to fray and my heart is healed. I’ll pray beforehand as I walk past the crystals lined on the wall and the Buddha statue resting beneath them. I’ll pray and assess the lines on their faces, the dead in their eyes.

And I’ll pray God gives me a way to show them just how much they’re loved.