The hair salon is as close to confessional as I'll ever get.
"How have you been since we saw each other last? Did you get that promotion?"
She winces when I say, "Um."
"It's not all bad. Didn't get the promotion. Got a different position instead."
God's face brightens. The neck strap on her apron frays; that I notice the detail at all means I forgot to take off my glasses. I put them on a table off to the side. "Oops."
"Don't worry about it." God's grin is at odds with her Karen haircut, but faith is trust. "What are we doing today?"
"The same as usual, I think. Maybe next time something new."
Frankincense and myrrh smell like bleach and toner.
"I think I've been giving Jesus too much screen time lately," God says, foils crinkling as she paints strands sectioned off.
"I don't have kids, so I can't really comment."
"Nah. Got divorced about it."
Her hands don't stumble but for a fraction of a second. "Yikes."
I shrug. "He made his choice. It was never about kids anyway. He just needed an excuse."
God almost says, Girl, you're the one who brought it up, but as only a divine being could do, she stops herself.
She secures the last foil and says, "Go have a seat, sweetheart. I'll come check on you in a bit. Do you want anything to drink?"
I sit in the back room, a lounge for people to process, water in hand, as her next appointment comes in. It's testament to God's efficacy. She can finish two men's haircuts before it's time to take out my foils.
She asks them about girlfriends, how school is going, if they've patched things up with their dads, and then she schedules them out for another appointment in six weeks before taking a peek at my roots and saying, "Looks good!"
God's fingers massage my scalp. "I let Jesus eat Nerds for breakfast yesterday morning. I told him not to say anything to his teacher."
"We've all got secrets. I ate cookie dough for dinner last week."
"Between that and the screens—I don't know."
The shampoo smells ambrosial. Like happiness I forgot. "You only get to do it once. No need to second guess yourself. The world will do plenty of that for you."
God throws her head back and laughs, warm water and her hand against my hairline. "I could tell you the same. Every time you visit me you say you'll do something new next time."
When my hair is dry, God swipes my credit card against her phone.
"First week of December sound good for when I see you next?"
"December it is, then. Tell your sister I said hi."
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