My Guitar

Salvation belongs to the Lord, and He works in mysterious ways — His wonders to perform.

I had turned fourteen and had become fascinated by the idea of owning and learning to play a guitar. One afternoon, ambling through the local shopping village, I spotted a guitar in a second-hand shop window. I was delighted at my find. But with nothing more than a few coins in my moneybox, a job was my only hope.

 As I walked past the hair salon, a “Help Needed — Apply Within” sign caught my eye. Without a second thought — except for the dream of owning that guitar — I stepped inside. 

Inga, the tall blonde German hairdresser, welcomed me warmly. She said I could start immediately — that Saturday and every Saturday morning thereafter. I was hired! 

Inga towered above me. She spoke with a thick German accent, and at eye level I was shocked rigid to see long black hair fanning out from her unshaven armpits under her white sleeveless dress. My brain was screeching, Rapunzel! I was out of my depth. 

That was my first little taste of culture shock. Quite confronting for a fourteen-year-old, to say the least. 

Inga waved me towards a woman draped in gold jewellery with pancake makeup, seated at the wash basin. I was too young to guess her age, but I thought, Is this what “in her prime” means? — a phrase I’d once heard my mother quote from a movie. The woman was clearly a regular, relaxed and familiar with the surroundings, awaiting her pampering. I, on the other hand, felt painfully shy. Let’s just say neither of us was prepared for what was coming next.

With no training or instruction, I was told to wash her hair. I draped her — that seemed obvious enough. I asked her to settle back into the chair — that seemed right too. I tested the water, something my mother always did for us, so I thought that was the proper next step. 

Then I put my fingers into her hair. It was nothing like mine. Mine was virgin hair — soft, fine, au naturel. Hers, full of hairspray, was coarse and straw-like from years of bleaching. I felt the tug and resistance. I saw her grimace. I lathered the soap, but it bubbled only in the thicket. Where was the scalp? 

Time stands still when you’re under pressure, and that hair wash felt like an eternity. 

Then came Inga’s voice, sharp and urgent: I needed to hurry, finish the rinse, and comb out the hair. My anxiety shot up. Despite hosing water over it, the layers of straw still clung to soap suds. 

Time was up. The suds would have to stay. 

I asked where to find a comb. She waved impatiently towards a curtained cubicle. “All the combs are in there.” I pushed back the curtain. “All the combs” turned out to be only two — the sublime and the ridiculous: a fine steel comb for removing lice, or a gigantic yellow clown comb. I chose the conservative option. In hindsight, I should have stopped right there. 

I started combing. She flinched. I tried again. She frowned. She bore with me for about two more seconds before blurting out, “Haven’t you got a bigger comb?”  Well, yes — that other comb. The one I had avoided. I nodded silently, fetched the giant yellow clown comb, and returned.

 This was more than she could bear. “What on earth is going on here today?!” she cried. Inga swooped in like a rescue squad. She placed a soothing hand on the client’s shoulder, glared me into retreat, and barked, “Take Chair 3’s curlers out!”

 Under the hot dryer, Chair 3’s lady sat with flushed cheeks and large steel rollers, glowing in anticipation for her afternoon wedding. The air was full of excitement. It felt good to be in that positive energy. We exchanged smiles. I thought, This will be easy.

 I pulled a pin. A silky curl tumbled down, springing beautifully. Fun! I pulled another, and another. Perfect. But then — I saw my mistake. The next curler, lying directly beneath an unsprung one, was tangled in a catastrophic web of hair. Within seconds, stylists leapt into action. I was gently but firmly moved aside.

 I’m not sure how the day ended for them, but my part ended quickly — with a wad of R15 in my pocket, a well-earned dismissal, and the certain knowledge that hairdressing was not my future. But I was ecstatic. My R15, plus the R10 in my moneybox, meant I could buy the guitar. And I did.

 My next goal was to master chords C, G, Am, and F. Soon I was cross-legged on the front lawn with our family dogs, my little sister, and cousin Grant, strumming in the warm afternoon sun, singing a gospel song: 

He’s got the whole world in His hands,  

He’s got the tiny little baby in His hands,  

He’s got the whole world in His hands.

 My mum and her sister, June, visiting on holiday, sat at the garden table drinking sweet tea and eating warm scones, chatting like only sisters can. One change in my mum’s life — from a few years earlier — was something she longed to share with her sister: how she had become a Christian. It was an amazing transformation. Before, God was dead to her. Now He was alive and real.

But June often avoided these talks. Life was busy — very busy. She was a farmer’s wife with three boys, living through tense political times. Their home was sandbagged to the roof for safety, and her sons went to school carrying firearms.

I kept strumming, adding a little twist: He’s got all three Berry boys in His hands. 

Words are powerful. We never know when they will reach someone’s heart. We believe it was by divine prompting that those words, sung from a R25 guitar by a fourteen-year-old in a garden, sank into her heart and began her spiritual journey. She started praying, reading her Bible, and going to church. 

Early in that journey, back home, June prayed one day:

"Father God, I can’t take all this fighting. Please sort it out. I want something plain and straightforward. I’m a simple woman. I don’t understand subtleties."

As if in answer, the car door flew open. She fell out — landed on her feet — handbag over her shoulder. All four men in the car — her husband and three sons — were speechless. June calmly got back in, turned the car around, and drove straight home in silence.

 The prayer was heard. And cousin Grant remembers it well.

Ann