Why do we always remember the things we’d most like to forget?

My husband and son were still sleeping while my pre-teen daughter, Lilly, and I busied ourselves getting ready for a day of sightseeing. Our first family vacation in ages. You know we were pumped.

I’d forgotten my curling iron, so made do with a round brush Bill found at the local drugstore. A Swirly Curly. A Twirly Whirly. Something.

I stretched out a handful of hair and pulled the round brush through it, then smoothed the ends around the bristles and rolled the slender brush all the way to my scalp. Simple enough. Like a curling iron, right?

After a minute or two, I turned my wrist to unwind my hair. Nothing happened. I gripped harder and turned the brush with more authority. Zip. I slid my fingers between bristles and scalp and tugged. It still didn’t budge. A small knot of apprehension growing inside me, I yanked a bit harder. Ouch.

Tears sprang to my eyes. “Lilly,” I called out faintly, “I’m in trouble here.”

My daughter bounded into our shared bath and quickly assessed the problem.

“Help.” I grimaced as I pulled on the plastic handle. “It’s stuck.”

Even with Lilly’s nimble fingers and my trembling ones, the brush didn’t move. Frustration soon gave way to desperation. “Never mind!” I shrieked. “I’ll do it myself.”

What I did was make it worse, twisting and turning the brush until it was hopelessly tangled in my fine hair. “It won’t come out!” I wailed. “It will never come out!”

(When I told my hairdresser this story a week later, she shook her head. “Liz, you’re lucky you didn’t walk in here with the thing still dangling from your head. Those round brushes are strictly for people who know what they’re doing.”)

I definitely did not know what I was doing.

Since the sight of a grown woman with a bright pink brush permanently attached to her scalp had to be funny, I should have been howling with laughter. Instead I was howling, period. Screaming like a banshee. Stamping around the hotel room, waving my arms, hollering for Lilly to run down to the front desk and get me a pair of &%$#@ scissors.

I’m sorry, sisters. Just the ugly truth of it.

Minutes later, clearly frightened by her hysterical mother, Lilly handed me the scissors and watched in horror as I hacked away at my hair with tears and gnashing of teeth.

The brush went in the trash. Sadly, our family vacation nearly landed there too.

It took an hour for me to calm down, and even longer for poor Lilly. My husband felt guilty all day, thinking he’d picked the wrong brush (or the wrong wife). And our teenage son walked ten paces behind us, pretending he didn’t know the woman with the red-rimmed eyes and the punk haircut.

A delightful day ruined for . . . what? A clump of hair that nobody missed but me. And a $4 brush that was history.

Rather than teaching my kids how a mature adult handles life’s tiny challenges, I’d showed them how a grown woman can behave like a toddler. Arrggh.

Even worse, my daughter can still describe that scene, word for horrible word, fifteen years later. If children learn from our example — and they do — I’d taught mine the worst kind of lesson.

What’s a bad mother to do? As soon as I’d swallowed my pride, I confessed my sins to my family. Then I confessed to God that I needed His forgiveness. Again. Still. Always.

The Bible assures us, “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” {1 John 1:9}.

Being forgiven is gift enough. Being washed clean? Priceless.

So, were my children scarred for life? Considering how easily we laugh about it now, I’m thinking they survived. Their faith is stronger than ever. And they definitely learned something: what not to do.

I learned a few things too.

Laugh in the moment, not just at the memory.
Let go of the stress, before you make a mess.
Make sure your last words are, “I’m sorry.”
When you tell the story, give God the glory.

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