Pilgrim's journey to Lourdes by Julian

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Jacques leaned back behind the wheel of the taxi, eyes tracing the winding road ahead toward Lourdes. The silence in the car was heavy, almost sacred. This was no ordinary ride — it was a passage. For Jacques, every journey to Lourdes was spiritual. And for the pilgrim in the back seat, it had to begin with truth.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. The man looked tense — fingers interlaced, thumb tapping a nervous rhythm on his knee. Jacques recognized the discomfort of someone traveling not just across land, but inward, toward the uncomfortable terrain of the soul.

"How are you feeling?" Jacques asked gently.

"Fine, thanks."

He nodded slowly but didn’t buy it. Jacques had driven enough pilgrims to know the difference between peace and pretense.

"You know," he said, voice steady, "Lourdes is more than a destination. It’s a mirror. A place where what’s inside us can no longer hide."

The pilgrim looked up, frowning slightly.

"That’s why," Jacques continued, "before we go further, I want to talk to you about something important. The seven deadly sins."

A flicker of discomfort passed over the man’s face. Jacques pressed on.

"Pride, envy, wrath, sloth, greed, gluttony… and vanity."

The pilgrim said nothing. Jacques waited.

Finally, a quiet voice replied, "Vanity."

Jacques raised an eyebrow in the mirror.

"Vanity is the one I struggle with," the man admitted. "Always have. Not in a loud way. But… I care too much. About how I look. What others see."

Jacques nodded. "You’ve just taken the first real step toward healing."

The car slowed. Jacques pulled over onto a quiet lane surrounded by trees, the dappled sunlight dancing across the hood.

He turned fully to the pilgrim.

"Then this is where we begin," he said. "We will confront your vanity head on."

The pilgrim’s eyes narrowed. "How?"

Jacques met his gaze evenly.

"You will get a haircut. A real one. Not stylish. Not flattering. Just… honest."

The man’s mouth fell open slightly. "What?"

"Trust me," Jacques said. "This is more than grooming. It’s penance. It’s detachment. And yes — it’s hard. But that’s how you know it’s real."


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They pulled into a narrow side street where a modest barbershop stood beneath a rusting awning. The red-and-white pole out front turned lazily in the summer air. Jacques parked.

Inside, the bell jingled as they stepped through the door. The shop smelled of talcum, aftershave, and old wood. Behind the chair stood Mr. Pierre — rotund, mustached, and calm as a monk.

"Jacques," he said warmly. "A surprise. What can I do for you?"

Jacques placed a hand on the pilgrim’s shoulder.

"My friend is on his way to Lourdes. But first, he needs to leave something behind."

Mr. Pierre nodded solemnly.

"Take a seat," he said.

The pilgrim sat slowly, eyes darting to the mirrors, to the strangers watching, to the floor already speckled with remnants of others’ sacrifices.

Pierre draped the cape over him and fastened it tight.

Jacques stepped forward, voice low.

"Scissors first. Cut it all short. No style. No shape. Lift each lock and take most of it off. Then clippers. Number three. Everything the same length. Nothing fancy."

Pierre nodded, reached for his comb and scissors, and began.

He started on the right temple. With the comb, he lifted a thick, dark lock of hair away from the scalp, letting it catch the light for one final moment. Then came the metallic hiss and click — the shears closed, severing the strand just above the fingers.

The hair fluttered down like a dying leaf, landing silently on the cape.

Another lock. Then another. Pierre worked methodically, lifting and cutting, each motion removing inches of pride, sculpting humility into the man’s appearance. Hair tumbled in clumps, draping his shoulders, slipping down the cape to the floor.

The pilgrim closed his eyes, jaw clenched. He felt every snip like a blow to something he hadn’t realized he was guarding so fiercely.

When most of the length had been removed, Pierre exchanged the scissors for clippers.

He placed a hand gently on the pilgrim’s crown and pushed his head forward, chin to chest. Then, with a soft buzz, the clippers came alive.

Pierre started at the nape. He drove the clippers up in slow, steady passes — from neck to crown — stripping away what was left. Jacques watched silently as the man’s neck was exposed, pale and unfamiliar.

Then came the sides. Pierre moved with focus, ears pinned forward as he sheared upward, clearing away the bulk, turning shaggy tufts into sharp stubble. Finally, he moved to the top — flattening the hair down, running the clippers evenly across the scalp until it matched the rest. A uniform #3 — humble, austere, inescapably raw.

Jacques stepped closer and pointed.

"The sideburns," he said. "All the way off. Make a clean line. Just above the ear."

"No… please," the pilgrim whispered. "I’ll look awful."

Jacques did not flinch.

"It’s not about looking good," he replied. "It’s about shedding vanity."

Pierre nodded. He placed the trimmer just where the top of the ear began and drew a straight line downward. A white stripe of skin emerged — stark against the surrounding stubble. He repeated the motion on the other side.

Jacques gave a small nod.

"Now the neckline. High and clean."

Pierre adjusted the chair and used the trimmer to mark a straight line high on the back of the head, exposing the full length of the neck. The bare skin gleamed under the light, free now of any soft veil of hair.

He reached for a small bowl and brush, lathered them with shaving cream, and gently applied the foam to the neck and sideburn areas.

Then he picked up a straight razor — gleaming and precise.

The pilgrim’s breath caught as the blade slid over his skin. Pierre worked with silent devotion, scraping away every trace of hair beneath the neckline and around the ears, revealing a perfectly smooth surface. He wiped the area clean with a warm towel.

At last, Pierre stepped back.

The pilgrim sat in stunned silence. In the mirror, a stranger stared back — head closely cropped, sideburns erased, neckline gleaming bare. The haircut was brutal in its honesty, an act of visual penance.

Jacques stood behind him, calm and resolute.

"This," he said, "is how you arrive in Lourdes — not adorned, but stripped bare before God."


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That evening, as the sun set behind the basilica, a lone figure knelt at the Grotto. His head was bowed low. His bare neck glowed pale under the dying light.

He had come to Lourdes with a question in his heart — and now, with every lock of pride fallen, he was ready to listen.

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