Blessed Are the Well Groomed (And Other Lies We Tell Ourselves)

A theological reflection on betrayal, barbershops, and the Gospel according to Bluto

I was seduced.

Not by a siren song or an invitation to sin, but by the slick design of a new barbershop while I was out of town. Think reclaimed wood, indie rock on vinyl, complimentary beer (though it was 11 AM and thus too early to start drinking before a church conference). A shop built for Instagram reels more than real heads. You know the type, where you half expect the barber to ask your Enneagram number before picking up the clippers.

And I, the proud owner of what has been called, by more than one clergy colleague and even a bishop, thank you very much, the best hair in the United Methodist Church, fell for it.

I betrayed Bluto.
I cheated on my barber.

I sat in that faux leather chair, trusting a stranger with my scalp, and walked out looking like someone who got in a fight with a lawnmower and lost. There’s no gentle way to say it: it was a bad haircut. The kind of bad that makes children stare and older ladies at the grocery store squint in concern. The kind of bad that makes you feel like putting on a baseball cap in church.

I was mad. Mad at the barber, sure. But mostly mad at myself. Yes, I knew better. I had betrayed my better judgment for the promise of something cooler, something quicker, something that felt like it might match the version of me I wanted to project. But when it all went wrong, when I looked in the mirror and saw a mess instead of a masterpiece, the anger turned inward.

Still, what really lit the fuse was the barber himself. The way he looked at me like he’d done a fine job, like he didn’t think anything had gone wrong at all. No apology. No sense of regret. Just a casual, “Looks good, right?” as if I were the one not seeing clearly. It wasn’t just the bad cut. It was the indifference, the lack of ownership. I wasn’t just embarrassed. I was furious. Furious that someone could leave me looking like this and feel no obligation to even acknowledge it.

Is there anything more maddening than being wounded by someone who doesn’t think they’ve hurt you? It makes you question your sanity. Your expectations. Your right to be upset at all. And yet, an hour later, that’s where I was. Staring at myself in a hotel bathroom mirror, halfway between shame and fury, wondering how I’d let it happen. And to make matters worse, I hadn't packed a hat.

The Temptation of the Cool

We don’t talk about this much, how easily we are drawn to shiny things. The lure of the new. The polished. The branded. We call it progress, a fresh start, or just something different. But let’s be honest: sometimes it’s just everyday FOMO dressed up in stylish packaging. Whether it’s a new job, a trendy restaurant, or a glossy new relationship, we chase the look instead of the substance. And we end up with something that feels hollow, no matter how good it looks on the outside.

The same temptation sneaks its way into church life, too. We long for experiences that are Instagram-worthy, preachers who sound like TED Talkers, sanctuaries that look like coffee shops, and sermons that avoid anything too rough around the theological edges. And sure, aesthetics have their place. Beauty can reflect the divine. But when the church becomes obsessed with image over depth, when worship becomes more about performance than presence, we lose the raw, vulnerable grace of the Gospel. We become more like spiritual barbershops. Polishing people up rather than resurrection communities where we learn to live with bad cuts, awkward grow-outs, and all. The church doesn’t need to be trendy. It needs to be true. And sometimes truth looks like old carpet, scratchy pews, and a community of people still figuring it out together.

My lapse in judgment wasn’t just about hair. It was a parable. A reminder that I, like so many of us in ministry, am not immune to being lured away from the faithful, ordinary, slow work of relationship by the flash of the aesthetic.

Bluto’s barbershop doesn’t have reclaimed wood or pour-over coffee. What it has is a guy who knows the shape of my head. A guy who remembers my kids’ names. A guy who knows when to talk and when to keep quiet. That shop isn’t built for social media; it’s built for trust. It is a means of grace.

And I left that for lighting and lo-fi.

The Theology of the Fade

Good barbers, like good pastors, don’t just show up for the moment. They build trust over time. They remember your scars. They know when to use scissors and when to go in with the clippers. There’s a sacramental rhythm to the whole thing: wash, anoint, bless, send. It’s practically baptismal.

But we live in a church culture that forgets the power of fidelity. We’re told to follow trends, to keep up with the algorithm, to chase cool. And that’s how you end up with a church that looks great on the outside but leaves you spiritually uneven.

Will Willimon once said something akin to the church is not here to meet your needs. The church is here to tell you the truth.

The truth is, we don’t need more stylish churches with clever logos and shallow theology. We need barbershop churches. Places where people are known. Where trust is trimmed and shaped over years. Where you can sit down without a word and still be seen.