A Spiritual Haircut
Recently, I got my hair cut.
Not just a trim where they snip a quarter of an inch and call it a day. I knew it was time. My ends had become wispy, dry, and damaged, and no amount of expensive shampoo or deep-conditioning masks was going to bring them back to life (not that I tried any of that...I am a simple gal). They had to go.
My hair was the longest it had ever been. But if I'm honest, I was measuring the wrong thing. I equated length with health, even though the ends told a different story. The reality was that those wispy, damaged ends weren't helping my hair grow. They were keeping it unhealthy.
When my stylist spun me around to face the mirror, I couldn’t stop smiling. My hair wasn’t dramatically different, but somehow it looked like I had more of it. It was fuller. Healthier. Thicker. By cutting away what was dead, the healthy parts finally had room to shine.
How often do we do the opposite with our souls?
We hold onto things that have long since stopped giving life because, well...they’ve become part of us. I mean, if we're being honest, some of us have emotional junk drawers. We know there's nothing useful in there, but every now and then we open it, shuffle everything around, and decide we're definitely not ready to throw any of it away.
We convince ourselves that if we’ve carried them this long, they must still have a purpose. So we cling to old hurts, unhealthy habits, fear, pride, control, resentment, people-pleasing, or the identities we’ve built to protect ourselves. They become familiar, and familiar feels safe—even when it’s slowly suffocating us. We treat them like that random box in the garage you've moved to three different corners over the years because surely you'll need whatever's in there someday. (Spoiler: you won't.)
The problem is that Jesus isn’t interested in helping us manage what is unhealthy. He wants to make us holy.
In John 15, Jesus gives us a picture of what that process looks like:
“I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.“ (John 15:1–2, NIV)
I’ve always found it interesting that Jesus doesn’t only talk about cutting off dead branches. He also talks about pruning healthy ones.
Why?
Because the goal isn’t simply survival. It’s fruitfulness.
Any gardener will tell you that pruning isn’t done because the plant has failed. It’s done because the gardener can see what the plant is capable of becoming. Left untouched, those extra branches compete for nutrients, block light, and eventually keep the plant from thriving. What feels like loss is actually an act of care.
Isn’t that often how God works in our lives?
Sometimes He lovingly puts His finger on something we’ve grown attached to—not because it’s inherently evil, but because it’s keeping us from becoming more like Christ. Sometimes it’s obvious sin. Other times it’s our need for approval, our obsession with image, our relentless chasing, or the lies we’ve believed about ourselves for so long that we mistake them for our identity.
We pray to become more like Jesus, but becoming more like Jesus almost always means allowing Him to remove the things that look the least like Him.
If spiritual growth worked like my Amazon cart, I'd much prefer adding things than removing them. "Lord, give me more peace. More patience. More joy." But so often He says, "I'd love to. First, let's get rid of what's crowding them out."
The writer of Hebrews encourages believers to, “lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us” (Hebrews 12:1, ESV). I love that distinction. Some things are clearly sinful. Others are simply heavy. Either way, if they’re entangling us or slowing our pursuit of Christ, they’re worth surrendering.
Here’s the beautiful part: Jesus never asks us to let go of something without intending to give us something better. Every place He prunes becomes another place where His life can flourish. Every false identity He cuts away makes room for our true identity as beloved children of God. Every fear surrendered creates space for deeper trust.
Looking in the mirror after my haircut, I didn’t mourn what had been cut away. I noticed what had been revealed. My hair looked healthier because the dead ends were no longer hiding it.
That’s what sanctification looks like too. Not becoming someone entirely different, but allowing Jesus to faithfully remove everything that keeps the person He created you to be from shining through.
Pruning isn’t always comfortable, but we can trust the hands holding the shears. After all, the Gardener never cuts carelessly. He only removes what keeps us from bearing even more fruit.
bytaylormcgee
