I woke up from a nap and saw my teammate, Katie, getting ready to leave. “Gonna go get your hair cut?”
“yeah.”
“Who's going with you?”
“No one.”
“Can I go?”
“If you want to!”
So Katie, our contacts wife (Camala), and I headed for the haircut place. We walked in and within minutes, Katie was under a pair of scissors. I sat and watched for a while, making sure the hair lady didn't take too much off.
It was then that I noticed the other woman in the shop. She looked so young, I wondered if she was working there or volunteering after school (is that even something they do in India?)
Suddenly, I felt this irrepressible urge to get my hair cut. At first, I resisted. “I just got it cut in the Philippines last month, and I hate it.” a small voice reasoned, “All the more reason to try again.”
I don't know how it happened, but somehow I ended up in the chair, asking the sweet young lady with the scissors to “cut it all off.” I think I even made a hacking motion with my fingers across my shoulder-length locks. She laughed nervously. (long hair is a given for women in India. No one over the age of 8 has shorter than back-length hair.) as she started to snip the back, she said (in a thick Telugu accent), “Baby cut.” Then it was my turn to laugh. “Baby cut. I'll take it.”
I soon found out that my new friend didn't speak English, and my Telugu is pathetic. So my sweet friend Camala shuttled back and forth between Katie and me. It got pretty crazy at one point, with me trying to carry on a conversation and Katie trying to stop the other woman from hacking all of her hair off.
I asked the girl with the scissors what her name was. “Padma,” she replied (This is one of the easiest names to remember that I've come across in India). I asked her if she was in school, and she shook her head. She said something in Telugu, and I looked to Camala.
“She says her father died, and her mother is too old to work, so she is working for her family.” I found out she was in 11th grade. “So, you're…17?” she shook her head. “Twenty.”
As she continued to cut my hair, my mind was reeling. When I was twenty, I had a job…but it was because I wanted one. I was in college…because I wanted to be. My money was for me; my car payment, my phone bill, my food, my nights out with friends. And this girl was supporting her whole family by cutting hair for a living, while trying to get through high school? Despite the pain in my heart for her physical needs, what grieved me the most was the dot on her forehead. “She's a Hindu. This girl needs Jesus.”
she finished, and I got up. “I love it! Thank you!” I paid her (and gave her a larger than average tip) but I couldn't leave. Not yet. My heart was beating out of my chest, my spirit was pushing me forward. “Can I…pray for you?” Cue translator, Camala. Padma nodded, and I reached for her hands. We prayed for provision and peace, but most of all, that she would know Jesus.
When we finished praying, she was crying. “Thank you, thank you,” she said in broken English. I couldn't help tearing up. “Jesus loves you, Padma. He loves you. He's taking care of you.” she must have hugged me a hundred times between the chair and the door. My heart was exploding with love for this girl.
“Trust Jesus, Padma. He's taking care of you. Believe in Him.” She said something in Telugu to Camala. “She says, that Christians, they come to her house and tell her about Jesus, but she did not believe…but now He is speaking to her, and she believes.” I clasped her hands. She kissed my cheek. “I'll be back to see you. I will pray for you. I promise.”
As we walked down the stairs, she waved. “Goodbye,” she said in English. “Wandanalu,” I responded (Telugu for “God bless you”). She laughed, and I walked out on cloud nine.
God is consistently amazing me with how He does ministry. I see Him moving in villages and orphanages and coffee houses and beauty parlors. I see Him working outside my box and using me to do it. That day, I saw Him in the face of a beautiful twenty-year old who finally believed…and all it took was a haircut.
