Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [72]
I’d just finished blow-drying my hair and regretting I’d not thought to have it trimmed before I checked in—you’d think some piece of pre-admit literature would’ve mentioned that— when I heard Theresa.
“Hey, Miss Thing,” she said and knocked on the bathroom door. “You best come outta there right now.”
Since she followed her order with a laugh, I figured I was safe. With Theresa, I never knew what intestinal crisis might have befallen her on the way back.
I opened the door and almost backed into the bathtub from shock. It must have been some weekend.
“I surprised you, huh? I knew I would. Well? When you gonna tell me how fly I look?” She spun around for the full effect. A clunky spin since she was wearing, of all summer shoe choices, purple and black high-topped sneakers.
“I’m, I’m speechless,” I replied, and I truly was. The trademark bracelets still jingled and clanged, but the hair she ran her hands through … oh, my. Theresa had returned as a blonde. With short hair. Very short hair. A boyish crop framed her face. Wow. I had to admire her bravery.
She grabbed my hands and pulled me away from the bathroom door. “Move over here so you can see me better,” she said. Her eager smile and bright eyes signaled she anticipated more compliments about her new style.
“Theresa, it's such …” I reached over and gently touched the ends of her bangs. “… an amazingly different look for you. How did you ever decide on this cut and color?” Generic expressions, please don’t fail me now, I prayed.
“Well, it was like this. I said to myself, ‘Theresa, you been down this rehab road before, and you got on it again. You know you need to change.’ So, then, I get this idea that maybe just changing inside ain’t enough. I mean, most people, they can’t see inside changes. Heck, most people don’t ever look for inside changes anyway. Right?”
I nodded. She was making sense, in a Theresa sort of way. Maybe she was onto something. Or on something.
“I start thinking that maybe changing my outside would be how people would notice I was different than I was before. You see?”
“Yes. You’re absolutely right.”
She nodded vigorously. I had flashbacks of her formerly enthusiastic hair, springing out every which way, and her beads bouncing all over the place.
“For sure I am. My cousin, she's about to graduate from beauty school. So, we start talking, and I have this, this— what's that fancy word you got for when you figure something out?”
“Epiphany?”
She snapped her fingers. “That's it. I had one of those with my cousin.”
“Uh-huh.” Really. What else could I say?
“We got on it yesterday afternoon. I told her I wanted people to see me new.”
I hugged her. “Well, sister, no doubt. You are a new woman. A brand new creation.”
“Girl, I can’t believe you just said that.” She jumped back, covered her mouth with her hands, and her purple eyelids almost disappeared her eyes were so round.
“What did I say? Oh, my gosh. Did I say something wrong? What?” I floundered in my confusion and almost tripped over her suitcase.
“No, not wrong.” She leaned her head back and spoke to the ceiling. “God, I knew you was with me. This was a sign.” Then she threw her suitcase on her bed, unzipped it, and pulled out a Bible. “You ready for this?”
I didn’t answer. I had no idea.
“My preacher in church this morning, look what he talked about. I underlined it right here. Second Corinthians 5:17. ‘Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.’”
I wanted to take another shower after Theresa left our room. I wanted a shower that would wash away my shallowness, my self-centeredness, and my selfishness down the drain where they belonged.
If faith had a school, I’d be in detention daily. God knew I’d be a slow learner, so He surrounded me with lessons on my level. The level of dumb and