The Hair Cut

“I can't go to church like this,” I thought in desperation as I surveyed the mess I'd just paid for at the beauty salon. “And I certainly can't sit on the stand with my back to everybody, so they can see how horrible I look!”

I felt like crying, like hiding in my closet, like running away right that minute and not coming back until my hair grew out.

The problem was, the coming Sunday was our Primary Program, where all the children age three through twelve sat on the stand and sang songs and told about the things they had learned that year. I was the second councilor, and in charge of the program.

My job, at this point, was to sit on a small chair next to the podium with my back to the audience, so I could direct the program and prompt children who needed help with their parts. In preparation, I went to a beauty shop to get my hair cut and styled. Why no one could ever understand my instructions and cut my hair right, I didn't know, but when I walked out of the salon the back of my head looked like a boy, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to fix it.

“I can't do this,” I cried as I tried my hardest to wrap my hair around a curling iron, thinking I could at least go curly. It wasn't any use. The cut was so short I couldn't get it around the iron even once.

“I can't do this,” I whined as I tried on every outfit I owned, hoping to find something that looked so spectacular it drew attention away from my hair. Of course, that wouldn't help, since sitting on the little chair meant no one would see any part of me below my shoulders.

“I can't do this,” I plead, as I knelt by my bed Saturday night and asked Heavenly Father to help the program go well, and to make me forget about my hair.

A memory came into my mind as I knelt there, of dad telling me about one of his cousins.

“I always liked her,” he told me one day. I'd moved into this particular cousin's ward, but had noticed that although her husband came to church every Sunday, she didn't seem to be particularly active. “She was one of the nicest cousins I had, and we had fun together when we were teenagers.”

“She's struggled with her weight, though, as she's grown older, and it's been really hard on her, I guess. She seems to go up and down, and when she feels overweight, she goes into hiding. Sometimes a year or more will go by without her even leaving the house.”

I'd felt bad for dad's cousin when I learned about her. I had a chance to visit her in her house, and personally, I didn't think she looked bad at all, but in all the time we lived in her ward, I never saw her at church. It was sad to think of all the blessings she had missed out on during that time.

Mom used to say, “Gale, your friends are going to be too busy worrying about themselves to even notice what you're wearing or how you look,” when I was an insecure teenager. Perhaps no one would really care how ugly my hair looked on Sunday. Or at least, if they did, they wouldn't remember and think about it afterwords.

“Buck up, Gale,” I told myself sternly. “You're not going to church so other people can see you. You're going to worship the Savior, and help the children worship Him. You can do this!”

And I did.