The Haircutting Memory

I wrote this on my blog in 2006

                               

 

When I lived in a monastery, the Abbot asked who knew how to cut hair. I raised my hand; I had never cut anyone's hair. But being 19, in a monastery, I had to claim amusement where I could.

A person from the town came to the monastery to teach me how to cut hair. Basic lessons 101. It was fascinating; I started cutting the hair of those in the monastery between work and prayer. The sisters and priests were patient with me. They always seemed satisfied and gave me free will to do as I thought best. I took their trust in me very seriously.

Laura, a community member and a real kick in the pants, came to my makeshift hairdressing station. Father Dominique was the kindest and most gentle-hearted man. I admired him, and I loved Laura as a dearest friend. Father Dominique sat on my barber's chair, and I put a cap around him, preparing to cut his hair. Out of the blue, Laura asked if she could try. I looked at Father Dominique, who nodded yes. He wasn't concerned that she did not know how to cut hair. She took the clippers from me and asked him what haircut he wanted; he said a trim. Grinning ear to ear, with a spark in her eye that made me have chills up my spine, she buzzed off all his hair. Every single hair! He grinned patiently. I was lost for words; how could she?

Then, with the same crazed funny look in her eye, she asked if she could trim his beard. I held my breath as he said yes. She shaved it off- his beautiful salt and pepper beard was gone! Shyily, Father Dominique asked if she was having fun. Laura giggled. Yes! I assumed haircutting would be an exciting challenge, but I never expected it to be like this: a complete folly. 

Then she asked him if she could trim his eyebrows. I shook my head no. But Father Dominique agreed; she shaved them off, and he looked stark naked in a bizarre way. Thank God, we lived in a semi-cloistered monastery where we rarely went out in public because people would think he was from a psych ward and not a respected monastic priest from France.

Father Dominique looked in the mirror and then at Laura, holding the clippers. He slowly stood up, shook the hair off, and politely said: I must go now, for I am certain you will ask me to trim my eyelashes, and I fear I would agree.

Sometimes, the holiest thing we can do is to say no.

Comments

[Jennifer Phillipps]

Oh My Goodness...I think that Father Dominique was too kind and perhaps Laura was a little bit too naughty! I cut my own hair and I cut my husbands hair, have done for many years and he still has a beard and eyebrows and eyelashes! That was rather an expensive lesson in humility from Father Dominique, though he had the good sense to stop the proceedings. Amazing story Corey! Cheers Jennie, NZ

[Jeanne]

I love your stories each one a delight

[Teddee Grace]

I wonder what motivated him to agree? A safe way to experience a somewhat different life?

[deanna]

Corey, I was surprised when you wrote that Father Dominique was French. I assumed that you were in a Monastery in the States. I know the story that Yann ended up in California from France....you met him at a dance:) So where was the Monastery?
_______

It was in New Mexico

[marilyn]

This is so hilarious.
I can picture, from your words, this shorn Father.
What a wonderful sense of humor he had.