My daughters don’t like my old-fashioned beauty treatments. When I scrub my skin with baking soda and vinegar, they’re appalled. If I use hemorrhoid cream around my eyes, they’re horrified. When I vacuum my cheeks to ‘plump-up-the-collagen,’ they have fits.
They have better ideas for making their old mom beautiful and it has nothing to do with vinegar, baking soda or hemorrhoid cream. They gave me some new-fangled facial crème and insisted that I use it. They fed me nutritional drinks and urged me to do work-outs.
They traipsed me here and there—to the gym, to the runner’s track, to the tanning salon…But it was the trip to the Hairdresser’s that really put me on edge.
It was a wild, windy day that did not bode well for a Country Mama such as me. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve never ventured out of bed.
“Mother, you are going! You’ll be beautiful!” my eldest daughter said as she hustled me toward the car. “I’m taking you to my hairdresser’s home, instead of a salon, to make it easier on you! Mom—I can’t believe you’re 50 years old and have never been to visit a beautician. That is a crime!”
I protested and fussed, but it did no good. Karissa drove me to the home of her personal hairdresser and marched me up the steps. It was there on the doorstep that things began to go wrong. If I’d had a lick of common sense, I would’ve turned tail and run away right then and there.
The young beautician appeared in the doorway looking tousled and sleepy-eyed, her hair blowing in the wind. She was just a kid and she had obviously overslept.
To make matters worse, her home was undergoing some serious remodeling. It was a disaster area that made Joplin, Missouri look pristine. The strong winds blowing outside only highlighted the irony—causing the windows to rattle, and the whole house to creak.
In the background came an insistent yapping. Terriers causing terror. Just my luck.
Nervously, I went inside, edging my way past all the building supplies and debris and settled myself into the chair near the window. I sat there primly, awaiting my fate, fearing the worst. I didn’t have long to wait.
The beautician sighed as she began working conditioners into my hair. “You know,” she said. “Yesterday, I had some kind of a mini-stroke while I was at work. I couldn’t function. Couldn’t even speak. I finally had to come home.”
I stared at her mutely. Things were going from bad to worst….and fast! Here I was, entrusting myself into the hands of a gal who was having trouble functioning, herself. Was I even sane?
The beautician went on rambling. The terriers went on yapping. My daughter went on smiling reassuringly while the hairdresser worked away on my tangled locks.
I gazed at the red-curtained window in front of me, trying hard not to fret, but it wasn’t easy. God only knows how I would survive this ordeal! Why did I let my daughters talk me into this—
My thoughts ended abruptly.
From outside, came a strong gust of wind that shook the house to its core. The window in front of me made an eerie noise, a strange moaning sound that raised the hackles on my neck. Then suddenly—as God is my witness—the whole window pane plunged toward me, frame and all.
It shattered at my feet, barely missing me.
My daughter and I gave a horror-stricken yelp, but the beautician hardly blinked. She heaved another sigh and after a moment or two of silent contemplation, she went on tousling conditioner into my hair with her fingers. “Stupid window!” she said. “That’s happened before. I’ll clean up the mess later.”
I stared out the window—bereft of its curtains and glass. The wind blew in unchecked now. Dear Lord in heaven! What would happen next? One thing was for sure. Something around here needed a makeover, and it certainly wasn’t me. Without missing a beat, the two girls went back to their chatter, and I sat there frozen and mute waiting for the ordeal to end.
It seemed to take forever, but the session ended at last. Smiling, the girls showed me a mirror. With trepidation, I peered into the glass, terrified of what I’d see.
I stared. Remarkable! I’d been transformed. This young gal might not be functioning well, and her house might be total chaos, but by golly—she sure could do hair.
I stared at my reflection. I looked younger somehow. It had been worth the agony of yapping dogs, and breaking glass and blowing wind.
To be beautiful requires diligence and risk…and I had survived the test. My daughter beamed. “Oh Mother…You look so good!’
What can I say?
I’d risked everything…and I’d escaped with my life, folks. I escaped with my life!