Recently, I decided to get my hair cut by a male stylist in town who’s a good acquaintance and doing his best to launch a salon & spa alongside his wife, who’s also a stylist. I’d been content with the salon that took care of my hair-grooming needs for a few years; but when Ricardo offered me a good price for his work, I decided the salon world wasn’t a place necessary for establishing deep-rooted loyalties. And I don’t like to spend money on hair stuff. So, Ricardo and his yet-unquoted “good price” won my business.

Ricardo’s a fairly confident, Mediterranean man, who moved to the States a couple years back to start a new life with his equally-Mediterranean spouse, Elena. He prides himself on being the best in town — if not also the best in many towns neighboring this town. He spends a lot of time and money traveling to Paul Mitchell-endorsed “here’s what’s up in the hair world this week” workshops in New York City and Paris/Prague (one or both of those). He keeps no less than three buttons of his shirt unbuttoned and, naturally, maintains a well-manicured beard.

So, as a guy who’s not living in Ricardo’s world of high-fashion and pageantry, I’ll admit: Ricardo’s pretty intimidating. I (still) haven’t managed to grow a presentable beard, let alone taken straight-ironing classes in Italy.

But I told him I’d visit him for a hair appointment and I’ve learned to stand by my commitments. Besides, from what I’d heard of this man, he was a sheer genius (that was bad, but I’ll let it go) and the idea of a new look interested me, after two years of the military-esque high ‘n’ tight thing, inspired by my re-visiting the Band of Brothers HBO series in early 2012.

Ricardo greets me at his salon with a firm handshake (I’m a hugger, but he’s a working man in his work space, so it’s all business), sits me down in his swively salon chair and drapes a cape over me. He proceeds to not ask me what kind of hair style I’m considering. That information’s irrelevant. I’m the one wearing the cape. I need to just…sit there…and let the artist work. Ricardo explains his game plan to me (I’ll try to do it in his accent):

“These es th’ most pupular men’s hair style in th’ wurl. These es how David Beckham styles hees hair. Right now.”

With charisma and aforementioned confidence, Ricardo uses hand gestures to paint me a visual picture of myself with Beckham hair. The look is a military-esque high ‘n’ tight thing with a part down the right side and the front hair kind of flipped up and back (I was unable to locate the technical jargon, but found this. It’s a real thing!).

“Oh…ok,” I say, with hesitancy. Remember, I’m a little intimidated. “This is essentially the same style I’ve had for awhile. Do you have any other ideas…or…?”

“These es the most pupular men’s hair style in th’ wurl,” Ricardo repeats. “I geeve these hair cut to all th’ men. Trahst me.”

He starts up the razor and does what he said he was going to do. Conversation over. I was getting the “David Beckham”. The accent probably had something to do with this, but it was impossible to not think of a less jerk-y, salon version of Seinfeld‘s notoriously eccentric “Soup Nazi,” as I sat there, taking orders from the merchant getting my (the customer’s) business.

The hair cut was fine. And I can’t argue that the look embodied what the fashion world says is currently cool. But that’s beside the much bigger point that came to me in that moment.

I wish this was an isolated situation of me allowing someone to assert on to me something different than what I really wanted. Especially considering the trivial-ness of getting Nazi’d into a “forced” hair style. But more often than I want to admit, I find myself being quite untrue to who I really am because:

• I didn’t want to create a divisive situation
• I didn’t care enough to fight for what I had initially purposed to pursue, because I simply wasn’t as convicted as I should have been in said purpose.
• I didn’t want to project myself as (too) different — being different is “cool,” but we all know there’s a limit before cool becomes “weird,” even as adults
• I didn’t know myself enough to really know what I want in the first place

Nearly every part of my office desk is laden with Post-It notes and 3×5 cards with reminders that I actually read, sometimes. Front and center-ish, is one that says in green Sharpie: “…Your task is to be true, not popular”, excerpted from the Message version of Luke 6:26. I’ve wanted to start a blog–or simply write what’s on my heart regularly–for years (and years), but I’ve never been convinced that I have anything of (enough) importance to communicate. And I’m realizing that I’m lazy (“So I really have to type out all of these thoughts into all of these words for free?).

It seems like God’s (been) telling me to start small and just start writing what I’m learning to be true in this season — and maybe beyond. Exploring the somewhat-universal concept of seasons themselves — the stories/lessons generated from them, and most vitally, where Jesus can be found in all of them.

While it’s pretty easy for me to be vulnerable I’m taking steps each day toward living more vulnerably, with some success, it’s tough to go at this knowing a lot of what I’m learning to be true isn’t popular. Shoot, I’m a walking billboard of having a hard time doing what’s true of myself.

My “pupular” hair cut is presently demonstration enough.