Ok, so I just have a second. I’m at the hair salon in the mall on their wifi and I just met a woman – well past her twenties – that had never had one ounce of color on her hair. We visited a few minutes before we got summoned to our hairdressers and I learned that she and her man were in ministry. She was a darling thing. Interesting. Fun. Clearly loved Jesus. We hadn’t talked hair yet. After all, we are women with our priorities straight. Then we met up back in the color section of the salon where my hair already had enough foil in it to bring in every radio station in North America. That’s when she said it. “This is the first time I’ve ever gotten color.” I was nearly speechless. I nearly broke my neck turning around to look at her. To make sure she’d said what I thought she’d said. The color specialists were aghast at the confession. Shamed maybe. Kinda like, “Some things shouldn’t be said in public.” You could have heard a hair pin drop.

“What did you say?” I broke the awkward silence.

“I’ve never done this before. I’m trying my first highlights.”

For the life of me, I could not think of a single other person I knew of reasonable age who had never doused her head in a tad of tint. I had all manner of questions. Something in me demanded to know why but something else in me felt protective of her. She looked so innocent. So naive. So new. And I was proud. So very proud.

“Your first highlights!” I exclaimed. “You’re doing the right thing!”

And there was bonding.

She came by and showed me later, after it was all blown dry and styled. I looked through the stringy strands of my dripping hair and beheld a vision. Subtle but definitely a start. More bonding. As she walked away, I sat in the chair, blow dryer thundering in my ear, and sighed with deep satisfaction, so thankful I’d gotten my own roots done.

It was a beautiful thing.