09/14/2026
If you havent heard yet... 🎉
I’m going home.
After almost 20 years of doing hair, I am retiring from behind the chair.
And strangely enough, I don't feel like I'm giving something up.
I feel like I've come full circle.
I graduated hair school in 2007 and started in Scottsdale, Arizona. From there, hair took me to southern California, Oklahoma, and eventually Pittsburg, Texas!
Four states.
Several chairs.
More conversations than I could ever remember.
Friendships that became family.
Some of the biggest moments of my life.
I met one of my dearest friends, Corbie, at Boardwalk in California.
And I met my husband, Colton, there, too.
He was a visiting client who sent me 12 roses—six red and six white, OU colors, which is a whole other story—after getting his hair cut while he was visiting California. He didn't even live there.
We wouldn't begin dating until I had moved to Oklahoma and he was living in Texas.
Looking back, it's almost comical how much God was already arranging before I had any idea what He was doing.
But perhaps the most important thing hair ever gave me was a doorway.
Here at TM Studios, I met Brooke.
One day she asked me a very simple question:
“Do you believe in Jesus?”
I took a long pause.
And told her, “No.”
That question opened the door to a hundred other conversations and continuous group studies.
And months later, after our fire, I woke up in the middle of the night.
And the scales fell from my eyes.
God was real.
He had been there all along.
He had been so patient with me. So kind. So loving. Waiting for me to finally open my eyes to Him.
I love the story of Zacchaeus in Luke 19. Jesus calls him down from the sycamore tree and tells him, in essence, I'm coming to your house.
And Zacchaeus ran to Him.
There is a sycamore tree outside my bedroom window.
I don't think that's a coincidence either.
And I feel like I'm running toward Him, too.
So, after nearly 20 years, I am leaving the salon-life.
Not because I am tired of hair.
Not because I failed.
Not because I don't have more I could accomplish.
But because I believe I've gotten everything out of this career that God intended for me.
Hair gave me so much.
But ultimately, God used it to give me my husband, my faith, my life.
And now I believe He is calling me into something else.
I'm going home to be a full-time wife.
I already home-school our son. I already help on our farm. I already pour into my family.
But I want to come home in a fuller sense.
I want to build a world for my husband to slip into when he comes home from the rig.
I want to care for our home.
Cook.
Serve.
Build this farm back up after the fire took so much from us.
Raise our son.
Create peace.
Be available.
And when God opens a door to serve someone else, I want to have enough margin in my life to walk through it.
Genesis tells us that God made Eve as a helper for Adam—ezer kenegdo.
I've spent a lot of time thinking about Eve.
Not as someone small.
Not as something lesser.
But as a calling.
A purpose.
A beautiful, intentional role that God Himself designed.
And I'm learning what that looks like for me.
The fire changed us.
But honestly?
For all the better.
I'm allowing that fire to build us back up.
More intentionally.
More simply.
More faithfully.
And one week after I leave the salon, I will turn 40.
I don't believe that timing is accidental.
Scripture is full of 40s—seasons of preparation, testing, transition, and becoming. I don't pretend to know exactly what God is doing with that number in my story.
But I know enough to pay attention.
I'm going home.
I'm excited.
I'm incredibly ready.
I am not afraid.
There is no fear in this decision.
No second-guessing.
No wondering if I'm making a mistake.
Just an incredibly deep confidence that this is where God is leading me now.
The world may tell us to keep climbing.
Keep building.
Keep achieving.
Keep proving ourselves.
But what if sometimes God's invitation is not “do more”?
What if it's “come home”?
I'm not retiring from purpose.
I'm stepping more fully into it.
And I cannot wait to see what God does with the rest of the story.
