A woman goes to her hairdresser before an upcoming trip to Rome. Naturally, she wants to have her hair done before she travels. The hairdresser asks, “Where are you going?”
“To Rome,” the woman replies.
“Rome?” the hairdresser scoffs. “What a filthy place. Why would you go there? And how are you getting there?” she continues. “Continental Airlines,” says the woman. “Continental?” the hairdresser rolls her eyes. “Tight as a sardine can.”
“Where are you staying?” The woman names the hotel. “That place? It's a half-star dive. You’ll regret it.” “And why exactly are you going?” the hairdresser presses. “I don’t know,” the woman says. “Maybe I’ll get to see the Pope.” “The Pope? Sure. You and twelve million other people,” the hairdresser snaps. “Good luck with that miserable trip of yours.”
A month later, the woman returns and once again takes a seat in the hairdresser’s chair.
“Well?” the hairdresser sneers. “How was it?” “Rome?” says the woman, beaming. “It was incredible. The people were warm, welcoming—it was a dream.” The hairdresser nearly has a coronary. “And Continental?” “Actually,” the woman says, “they saw us at the gate and bumped us from economy to first class. No extra charge.”
The hairdresser looks like she might faint. “And that run-down hotel?” she asks, grasping for something negative. “Oh, when we arrived, our room wasn’t ready. So they upgraded us to the presidential suite—completely complimentary.” The hairdresser is now practically unglued. “And the Pope? Surely you didn’t actually see the Pope...” “Funny you should ask,” the woman says with a smile.
“The Pope actually spoke to you?” the hairdresser gasps. “Yes,” the woman says. “He leaned in close and whispered, ‘Thank you for coming. It’s so lovely to meet you. But I must ask—who did your hair? It’s dreadful.’”
That is the nirgan, the complainer—the inner hairdresser. The voice that always finds fault, always drags down, always mocks or undermines. There is no place for the hairdresser-like syndrome in our closest relationships—not between husband and wife, not between siblings, not between friends. If we allow that critical spirit to dominate, we turn beauty into bitterness, and joy into sarcasm. A life lived with love must silence the complainer.
