The manager of the hairstyling school called me into her office yesterday and said, “Have a seat,” in a not-too-friendly way. I knew why I was there.
Last time I got my haircut I shared my faith with about ten tattooed, studded and pierced, rocker-retro-punk stylists. And boy, did they complain. My friend who is going to school there got called in the day after I left and was warned that if I came again I couldn’t share my faith. The students were also instructed to leave me if I started talking about Jesus.
Before I sat down in the manager’s office I told her, “I know why I’m here and you don’t have to worry; I won’t say a thing.” “Someone already told you?” she asked. “Yes.” I walked out of the office, sat down in the waiting room and opened my Bible. I got my haircut and never said a word, though I did wonder if the stylist might do an accidental “Ooops” and give me a Mr. T. But for some strange reason, the manager gave me her top student.
My hair looks darn good—if I do say so myself!
Question: Why do you think I remained silent?