Women spend a great deal of time and money on their hair. I’ve always wondered why. Is our identity tied to our hair? Is our femininity? Our beauty? In biblical times, a woman’s hair was referred to as her “crowning glory.” Yet, hair can be here today and gone tomorrow. Particularly after a visit to the hair stylist.

I didn’t realize the full extent of my hair vanity until I moved overseas and faced a Russian hairdresser. My ex-pat friends warned me about going to the hair salon, but I laughed at them.

I didn’t laugh for long….

Clutching a vocabulary list of hair words in my sweaty hand and saying a little prayer, I resolutely marched to a nearby salon. Ladies in gray lab coats lounged about the room, smoking, watching TV and drinking tea. My bravado slipped as I stood for what seemed like an eternity, wondering what to do. Finally, one of the gray coats approached.

With the aid of my Russian vocabulary list, I requested a haircut. Miss Gray Coat inquired if I had brought shampoo. Puzzled by the question, I told her no. Snatching me by the arm, she led me to a dark and gloomy bathroom. She pointed to a giant claw-footed porcelain tub, instructed me to rinse my hair, then pivoted and left the room. I obediently hung my head over the side, under the faucet, and began to rinse my hair. Every nerve in my brain protested as icy water hit my scalp. Evidently, the hot water was reserved for teacups.

Returning to the front of the shop, I perched on the edge of the chair with teeth chattering and water dripping down my neck (my towel was at home along with my shampoo). My eyes darted around the room, discreetly observing the other patrons and hairdressers.

I did a double-take. OH NO! Every woman had the same haircut — a variation of a short bowl cut.

The execution of my hair was about to begin.

After several quick chops of the scissors, I was led back to the water torture. I dug in my heels, but the Russian bear of a hairdresser overpowered me, dragging me to the back room. After another dousing of frigid water, the executioner asked if I wanted a blow-dry. Since it was 20 degrees below zero outside, I thought it might be advisable. Also, I hoped the warm air might unfreeze my brain and unlock my Russian vocabulary frozen in its icy depths. Shivering, I nodded in reply.

Apprehensively, I followed her down the hall to a new room. She flung open the door and revealed a row of women sitting under antique hard-hat dryers. Except for the roar of the dryers, there was no sound, no happy chattering or gossiping — just a group of stone-faced women baking their freshly shorn hair. Instructed to help myself, I tiptoed over to an empty dryer to join the bake-off.

After that hair-raising experience, I decided I preferred my hair on the long side.  So I made my next hair appointment for a year later.   In. America.

In a recent scientific survey conducted among five American ex-pat friends, I discovered getting a haircut while overseas was one of their greatest fears. This fear was due to language ability, cultural differences, and the fact that our identity, femininity, and beauty are all tied up in our glorious head covering called hair.

Now, I have naturally curly hair and have a love/hate relationship with my curls. I regularly tortured my hair with straighteners, rolled it on orange juice cans, taped my bangs to my forehead at night with a special pink tape, all in the hopes of taming my curls. Eventually, I embraced the hair God gave me and learned to love it.

I’ve always struggled with the taming of my mane. One day, I realized that my identity was not tied to my hair. I find my identity in God, my Heavenly Father. I’m a daughter of the King, and he loves me just the way I am. The condition of my heart is much more important to God than the condition of my hair.

After all, God numbers the hairs on my head.

And maybe those left on the floor.