Rev. Battersea -- words AND deeds by Manny

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And old series revived to celebrate the reviving of the board after a pause!

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When the orderly wheeled Jason back into the hospital room, Rev. Battersea winced at the sight of his handsome congregant stripped of his flowing signature locks. His head was bone bald! Gleaming white scalp that looked like a naked light bulb. Gone was the glorious feathered mane that hung in beautiful layers almost to his shoulders.

Jason’s moribund face intensified the atmosphere of despair and loss.

Rev. Battersea rose halfway from his chair as the orderly guided the wheelchair into place.

The minister’s lush brown hair -- perfectly blow-dried in his signature retro-1990s cascade --shifted as he leaned forward. The differences between the two men who had once vied for an informal superlative of "best man’s hair in the congregation" could not have been starker.

Jason looked nothing like the vibrant young man who habitually sat in the third pew, sunlight catching the blond waves that framed his face like a halo. Now his scalp gleamed under the fluorescent lights, pale and bare, every contour exposed.

Rev. Battersea swallowed hard.

"Jason," he whispered, the name barely a breath. "I’m here to have a word of prayer with you before the operation."

The orderly helped Jason get up, onto the gurney. Momentarily, Jason would be wheeled into the operating room for surgery.

While Jason appreciated the minister’s support, he wasn’t in the mood for prayers, or for that matter, anything at all, really.

He felt numb, knowing that the mass detected near his brain might be malignant; then there was the other matter -- the horror of having his head shaved surgically clean for the surgery.

Jason was glad that Rev. Battersea hadn’t witnessed him losing it during the surgery prep. As the orderly shaved off his mane, he was overcome with emotion and broke down in sobs. He felt ashamed that his hair had mattered so much. But, it wasn’t just his hair. It was a few months of accumulating bad news. The golden locks falling to his lap and the floor around the little triage area were simply the last straw.

Rev. Battersea’s eyes stayed fixed on Jason’s scalp, as if trying to reconcile the man before him with the memory of those long, feathered layers that once brushed his shoulders. He remembered how Jason used to push his hair back when he laughed, and also how it would fall forward again in soft waves. When Jason would bow his head to pray during the service, the cascade would dazzle.

"Thanks for coming, Rev. Battersea. If you could put a word in for me with the big man upstairs," Jason said, trying to force some humor.

His eyelids fluttered; his face, drained of color, carried a heaviness that made the room feel colder.

Rev. Battersea moved to the side of the bed.

Jason asked in a low, raspy voice, "How do you like the haircut?"

Instinctively, Rev. Battersea said, "You look fine, Jason. Lots of men are rocking the dome. I might get one myself someday."

"I do not look fine," Jason snapped defiantly, still feeling his bald head.

The orderly stepped back, giving them space, but he didn’t leave the room. He wasn’t a religious type and felt that, in general, clergymen were the biggest phonies on the planet. ‘I might get myself one someday…’ Really?! Such hypocrisy!

Rev. Battersea took Jason’s hand and guided it gently away from his scalp.

"Hair grows back," he said softly. "But you -- you’re still here. And that’s what matters."

Rev. Battersea lay his hand on Jason and poured out a heartfelt, beautiful prayer that was full of sincerity, truth and faith. It was the total opposite of his insincere and hollow comments about the bald head.

As he prayed, Jason shifted on the bed, turning back toward the minister. Rev. Battersea gently caressed the soft, smooth scalp.

The prayer ended, and Jason thanked the minister again for coming.

"I’m glad you prayed for the Lord’s will to be done instead of some syrupy, hopeful talk about miracles," Jason said quietly. "The prognosis is ugly; my specialist prepared me for the worst. The way the mass has grown so quickly…an aggressive tumor is what he thinks."

"You’re someone who’s fighting," Rev. Battersea replied. "And there’s nothing more beautiful than that. Your church family -- and the Lord! -- will be with you every step of the way, whether the news is good or bad."

The orderly exhaled quietly, the tension easing from his shoulders. On second thoughts, the minister might not be such an evil character after all…. The prayer had been so sweet and authentic. Jason seemed to have recovered a bit emotionally.

For a moment, the three of them stood in a fragile constellation -- one man stripped bare, one man still crowned in his iconic mane, and one man who had long since traded vanity for practicality (a #2 butch that his roommate administered in the kitchen with a cheap set of clippers). The room felt different now -- warmer, fuller, more hopeful.

The doors swung shut behind the surgical team, Jason’s bed disappearing down the corridor in a blur of scrubs and purposeful motion. The echo of their footsteps faded, leaving Rev. Battersea and the orderly alone in the suddenly too-quiet room.

Rev. Battersea exhaled shakily, running a hand through his thick brown mane as if reassuring himself it was still there.

The orderly noticed.

He crossed his arms over his scrub top, the fabric stretching slightly across his shoulders. His buzzed scalp caught the overhead light, a stark contrast to the reverend’s voluminous hair.

"You know," the orderly remarked, leaning one shoulder against the wall, "you might want to ease up on the commentary next time."

Rev. Battersea blinked. "Commentary?"

"Yeah," the orderly insisted.

His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was unmistakably blunt.

"You should’ve heard yourself…! ‘You look fine, Jason.’ Oh, and the phoniest, most insincere remark of all…. ‘I might get one myself someday.’ Pardon the pun, but that was a bald-face lie!" the orderly remarked.

The comment was like a punch in the stomach. Out of the mouth of babes….! A clergyman being told he was a liar! OUCH!

"I was trying to make him feel better," Rev. Battersea whimpered, trying to regain a bit of dignity. "And, how do you know I won’t get a chromedome myself one day?!"

"How about now?" the orderly snapped, business-like. "The clippers are still out in the triage area where Jason got shaved. I’m heading there to sweep up the remnants of wreckage. You can’t imagine the amount of blond hair on the floor. Want to join me, Pretty Boy?"

The reverend stiffened and was taken aback by the challenge! The taunt stung.

"Not really," Rev. Battersea croaked.

"I didn’t think so," the orderly said caustically. The whole time you were trying to encourage him, you kept touching your own hair like it was a security blanket."

Rev. Battersea’s body tightened.

"You’re saying I’m hypocritical and vain," Rev. Battersea replied through a tense, clenched jaw.

"If the shoe fits," the orderly smirked.

Then, the orderly abruptly gathered his things and headed to the door.

"You staying or leaving?" he asked in a perfunctory manner.

Rev. Battersea’s heart beat rapidly. He touched his hair again.

"I’m coming with you," he eked out. "I think it’s only right that I add my hair to the pile before you sweep it up."

"It’s okay," the orderly said, holding up a hand. "I’m not judging you. I’m just saying: if you’re gonna preach confidence, there are better ways to do it. Just be honest. Don’t act like you wouldn’t mind losing your own precious locks."

"But you did judge me, didn’t you!" Rev. Battersea stammered, turning the tables on the orderly.

"I suppose so," the orderly admitted.

"And, the judgment was deserved; you spoke the truth! And, I feel convicted about that," Rev. Battersea said. "I want to make amends, to make things whole. I want to be sitting in this room when Jason’s wheeled back in here with a head as naked and bald as his!"

Now it was the orderly’s turn to feel convicted. He cracked a shy, guilty smile.

"You’re not a phony after all," he said in a low voice of admiration. "And that was a sweet prayer you said. I saw the way it soothed Jason. I’m not for all that churchy stuff, but maybe it’s good for some people."

"Like me, and Jason," Rev. Battersea replied, smiling.

He ran his fingers through his long, soft hair. The security blanket was ready to be stripped off.

"Let’s go!" Rev. Battersea said, forcing a tone of excitement.

They stepped out into the hallway, and the minister immediately felt the weight of what he’d committed to. His scalp tingled beneath his thick brown mane, as though it already sensed its fate. Every fluorescent light they passed seemed to spotlight his hair -- the volume, the sheen, the careful styling he’d achieved that morning.

His emotions swung wildly with each step. Panic. Relief. Embarrassment. Resolve. Fear.

And, finally, a strange, unexpected calm.

‘Maybe that’s exactly what I need, a head shave!’ Rev. Battersea thought to himself.

The orderly walked beside him with an easy, unhurried stride, hands in his pockets. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t tease, didn’t reassure -- he just led the way.

Somehow that made Rev. Battersea feel steadier. He admired the young man who held a lowly position but who spoke with the clarity of an Old Testament prophet and who was as persuasive as a New Testament apostle preaching truth. Truth that engenders repentance -- a stark change of direction, a U-turn on the road of life!

As they approached the triage area, Rev. Battersea felt his stomach drop and the steady calm he’d been enjoying began to waver. His legs wanted to turn around, his vanity urged him to flee -- but he kept walking.

The orderly closed the door behind them with a soft click.

"I can’t believe you made it all this way," he said with a tone of admiration, surveying the minister’s carefully cultivated coif. "I thought for sure you would peel off as we walked through the hospital halls."

The room was simple: a chair, a counter-like bed with paper runner on it, a counter with surgical clippers and a half-folded cape, a broom leaning in the corner. Unlike a normal barber shop, there wasn’t a mirror to be seen in the place!

Then, the orderly added, "My name’s Corey, by the way."

Rev. Battersea took a seat on the small folding chair.

"Wow, you’ve got as much hair as Jason had!" he remarked as he surveyed the magnificent mane.

"Not for much longer," Rev. Battersea said with a little laugh that was somewhere between nervousness and relief.

On the floor still lay the remnants of Jason’s blond mane spread about like a throw rug.

Rev. Battersea’s breath heaved as he glanced at the pile.

The orderly noticed.

"You sure about this?" Corey asked, not unkindly.

Rev. Battersea answered with a silent thumbs up, then gave his mane one last farewell flick. The locks danced around and put on a show of beautiful luster.

Corey draped a cape around him -- a plain, utilitarian thing.

Rev. Battersea’s clerical collar disappeared as Corey fastened the cape around the minister’s neck. The orderly felt a bit humbled and regretted thinking the minister a phoney.

Corey smoothed the beautiful hair down with his hands, but said nothing.

Then, he snapped the clippers on.

"I admire you for this, sir," he said quietly.

The sound of the machine made Rev. Battersea’s pulse spike -- a low, buzzing hum that vibrated through his chest. He gripped his legs nervously since the makeshift barber chair had no arm rests on it.

Corey stepped behind him, almost meditative. No smirk. No judgment. Just focus.

"Sit up straight," he said.

The reverend obeyed, holding his head high.

Corey took a comb and pulled back the glossy fringe so that the strong hairline was clearly visible.

The first pass was decisive.

The clippers there thrust into the thick brown hair and a wide swath of scalp appeared in their wake down the entire length of his head on top. The heavy-duty machine was equipped with a blade that cut impossibly close to the scalp, leaving virtually nothing behind.

Heavy shanks of chestnut slid down to the cape and scattered into a glistening arc of cut hair all over the nylon expanse.

Rev. Battersea inhaled sharply.

Corey didn’t pause. He guided the clippers with steady, practiced movements, and continued stripping away the reverend’s pampered mane in long, confident strokes. Each pass sent more hair tumbling.

Glossy brown waves that had once been Rev. Battersea’s pride, now falling like shed illusions…heading towards oblivion, like forgiven sins.

The reverend watched them accumulate on the cape. There would be no more long styling sessions in the morning with his brush and blow dryer.

Just that thought made him burst out into a bit of a nervous giggle.

"I can’t believe this is happening," he said, as if to explain the incongruent laugh.

Corey paused to begin working on the back, putting an end to the graceful flow.

Rev. Battersea took the opportunity to glance at the floor.

It was a bittersweet sight, his copious cut locks resting atop the blond ones Jason had relinquished earlier.

Corey’s demeanor remained steady, almost gentle. He was simply doing the job with a quiet respect that made the moment feel almost sacred.

He examined his progress. The deed had almost been accomplished. Corey stroked the bald head before him, a few soft and gentle touches to communicate his respect.

"I’m not even going ask you how it looks," Rev. Battersea deadpanned, trying to inject a bit of humor into the still, small room.

Corey clicked off the machine and set it on the counter, then continued smoothing the reverend’s scalp.

"It was a beautiful act of friendship and a true show of support for your church pal," Corey said.

The reverend looked up and mouthed, "thank you."

Corey felt a lump in his throat.

"YOU are a truly beautiful person," he said.

Then, to break the mawkish sentimentality, he quipped, "However…you are much more beautiful WITH hair than sporting this new bald-to-the-bone look!"

The cape came off, and Rev. Battersea lifted his hand to feel the stark baldness that the surgical clippers had inflicted.

Even without seeing the damage, Rev. Battersea felt like a very changed, vulnerable man -- one who had been put in his place and relieved of vanity.

The orderly stepped back and gave the newly-balded minister a nod of affirmation.

"Now you’re not just talking the talk," he remarked cheerfully.

"Thanks, Corey, I owe you," Rev. Battersea said as he shook the orderly’s hand.

Corey unexpectedly transformed the handshake into a hug, a strong embrace of friendship.

Then, he took a final look at Rev. Battersea.

"You know what?" Corey remarked. "I think I’ll be at your church on Sunday. I want to watch all the stunned reactions from the church crowd. See you up in the pulpit with your bald head shining brightly!"

"If you come, expect a shout out!" Rev. Battersea chirped.

The minister watched Corey sweep up several piles of cut hair before slipping out of the makeshift barber shop.

As he walked down the long hospital hall, he felt the inspiration for Sunday’s sermon coming on -- words AND deeds. Talking the talk AND walking the walk!

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