Shave Angel: How My Hairdresser Becomes a Ministering Angel
We are in a sacred space together; she is entering a painful moment, doing a defacing, not enhancing act, but with grace, solemnity, and healing. It is an odd ceremony, a liturgy of loss, a ritual of bitter beauty.
With the earnest look of someone who is about to do something daring and unusual, Terrie pulls out a specially consecrated bottle of holy water from Lourdes and dabs my head and shoulders multiple times in the sign of the cross, invoking Jesus’s name for healing and blessing. She then gives me three cozy caps she ordered on Amazon to wear around the house. She asks me how I’m feeling to which I reply “nervous, but excited to do something preemptive.” A hairdresser at a high-end salon, Terrie has come for a home visit to shave my head to a short buzz. She tells me each one of the twenty-five women she has shaved, which sadly includes young women, many with long hair, reports being nervous and anxious. She then offers an emphatic and empathetic pronouncement that cancer “sucks,” repeating the word several times.
As she applies the razor, I catch bunches of hair in my hands, holding and stroking their softness before releasing them. I tell her that I would only want her here. Each woman, she says, wants it that way. We are in a sacred space together; she is entering a painful moment, doing a defacing, not enhancing act, but with grace, solemnity, and healing. It is an odd ceremony, a liturgy of loss, a ritual of bitter beauty.
When done, she takes a step back, looks at my head, then back at me with a gush of compliments about the shape of my head. She tells me it’s perfect and that I look like a model. Apparently, it’s a fashion statement to buzz one’s head right now. Her words have an unexpected effect on me, soothing, assuaging, and hushing my worries. I feel affirmed and loved just as I am.
Terrie runs into the garage for a broom, sweeps up the head of hair under the kitchen stool, and deposits it in the trash. Last time I sobbed when I saw my clump of hair in the shower. This time there are no tears, no sting of sadness, just a quiet acceptance and defiant triumph. She then shapes my wig to make it look just like my hair. I look in the mirror at my buzzed head, then at the wig and smile. Peace arrives like the bouquet of flowers delivered to my doorstep earlier in the day.
I hand her my credit card, but she refuses to take anything. She hugs, kisses, and blesses me, packs up her tools, and sprightly walks out the door. She is my “Shave Angel” whose special touch leaves me strangely empowered, even buoyant, grateful for a priceless gift of love.
Later that day, my friend Nancy calls me asking if I broke up with my boyfriend.
A Note From Shave Angel
“As you know, for whatever reason God has seen fit, He has put me in the position of aiding a woman about to shed her hair while in fearful anticipation of the difficult journey she was about to embark on. Every experience--I have had a few dozen--has been sacred and touched my heart. From a stranger to a dear friend to a close relative.
The amazing experience that you and I shared I can say unequivocally was of the most intensely spiritual I have ever had. Never when I was shearing someone for hair loss or praying with them did I feel the Holy Spirit so strong among us.
It was a beautiful and sacred experience that I will never forget and will forever be grateful to you for allowing me to be in the midst of our Lord ministering to you.”
After signing her name, she adds “Priest.”
Thank you for reading this blog post! I’d love to hear how this story impacted you or someone you know and/or any stories you’d like to share. Click here to contact me. - Sheri
Read Next: “Why I’m Buzzing My Hair Before It Falls Out”