This time I didn't mention it.

I only get my hair cut when I'm home in Louisiana. I've had too many disasters other places, and I really love the salon here. They don't know or remember me (I only go once or twice a year), but still — it's where I feel most comfortable. I never have to be nervous...

So, my annual hair cut usually ends up happening sometime during Christmas week. And of course, when you're sitting in that chair on the day before Christmas, the natural thing to talk about would be your Christmas plans.

As a side note: You know the phenomenon where people will tell their hairstylists almost anything? That there is a certain level of candor you can achieve with them that you can't get anywhere else? Well, not for me. I'm not good at talking to people I don't know, and the whole thing makes me uncomfortable...

But regardless of that, two years ago when I got my hair cut on Christmas Eve, I was attempting to fulfill those small talk requirements —

"So honey, what are your plans for Christmas?"

And usually, if someone asks me something like that, I'll just give a generic answer. Growing up in the South, as one of 2 Jewish kids in a high school class of 500, it's just not worth delving into the whole Jewish thing each and every time.

But for some reason, on that morning two years ago, I told the truth —

"Well, I'm Jewish, so I don't celebrate Christmas. But, I'll probably just go for a run in the morning and then hang out with my parents in the afternoon. I might go dancing with my friends at night, or maybe just to the movies."

And then there was a pause and a nod, before she asked in a quiet and calm voice —

"So what exactly does it mean to be Jewish?"

"Oh. Well, basically, it just means that I don't believe Jesus is God's son."

To that there was more silence and a few cuts of my hair. Then, she put the scissors down, tucked the brush into her smock, and disappeared into the back.

I sat in that chair, staring into the mirror at my half-wet, partly-cut hair for about 5 minutes before someone else came out and finished my hair.

When she was finished, my hair looked good.

But, that morning (for the first time since the 8th grade when someone told me they were praying that I didn't go to hell), I felt ashamed. I was embarrassed about who I was and what I believed.

And you know, at the salon that day two years ago, nothing was ever said. Maybe I was imagining the whole scenario. Maybe that first girl just didn't feel well.

She never came out of the back room, and I didn't see her again, until yesterday —

"Hi, Merry Christmas! How are you doing? What are your plans for the holiday?"

Once more, I didn't lie.

"Well, I'm a flutist so I'm going to play at mass tonight and tomorrow morning and then just spend time with my family and friends. I'll probably go on a walk with my mom or maybe go to the movies. Pretty much a normal Christmas... "

And of course, my hair still looks good.