The Microphone, the Bun, and the Lesson?

Here is your gentle (and hard-earned) reminder that sometimes it is not only okay, but holy, to advocate and ask for what you need.

My hair has been growing out for several years now, and lately I’ve been trying to figure out what actually works for me when it’s pulled up and back. I’ve been experimenting with buns and up-dos, learning from YouTube tutorials late at night, trying to strike that elusive balance between what feels comfortable, what looks professional, and what actually feels like me. Hair, for clergywomen, is not a neutral thing. It carries expectations, assumptions, and—apparently—technical complications.

At one of my churches, I wear a microphone that straps across the back of my neck and hooks over each ear. Depending on my hairstyle, the strap sometimes lands just wrong. When it does, I find myself constantly adjusting it—subtly, or at least trying to be subtle—throughout the service. When I take it off, I often have to untangle it from my hair. A small irritation, yes. But also a constant distraction.

It all came to a head on Christmas Eve. I had done a particularly pretty low bun. I felt confident walking in, ready for the beauty and weight of the night. And then the service started, and the mic and my hair were not cooperating. The entire service I was fiddling—touching my neck, shifting the mic, adjusting my bun, trying not to draw attention to myself—while silently wishing I could just focus on worship instead of what was happening at the back of my head.

Fast forward to a recent Sunday. As I was driving to church, I noticed something familiar and unsettling: my body was already tense. My shoulders were tight. My thoughts were looping. I was worrying the whole way there that the bun I thought would clear the mic strap probably wasn’t high enough. The anxiety had arrived before I did. All of that stress over something that felt so small, yet was clearly impacting my ability to be present and grounded.

And then—I did the thing I so often encourage others to do but hesitate to do ourselves.

I asked.

Our sound guy was in the office, when I arrived, so I explained the situation and asked if there might be a different mic option that would work better with my various hairstyles. He didn’t blink.

“Oh yes,” he said. “We have a different mic. We used it when we had the previous female pastor.”

Friends. That mic has been sitting there this whole time.

No sighing. No inconvenience. No eye-rolling. No suggestion that I was being fussy or high-maintenance. Just a simple, practical solution that required one brave, vulnerable ask.

This moment mattered to me not just because of the mic, but because clergywomen in particular don’t always ask for what we need.

Many of us are already acutely aware that we are perceived—often unfairly—as being at a disadvantage. Too emotional. Too demanding. Too young. Too old. Too loud. Too soft. Too much. Not enough. And so we learn, often unconsciously, to make ourselves smaller, quieter, more adaptable. We tell ourselves it’s easier not to ask. Easier to adjust. Easier to endure mild discomfort than risk being labeled “difficult.”

The truth is, ministry was not designed with women’s bodies in mind. Dresses and pants frequently don’t have pockets, which means there’s nowhere to clip a mic pack. Or the clip pulls the fabric in awkward ways. Or the pack is heavy enough that it drags everything down, requiring constant readjustment. Hairstyles that are perfectly appropriate—and professional—can interfere with head-worn microphones that were clearly designed around short hair or male head shapes. Shoes that are expected of women don’t always allow for standing, moving, and presiding comfortably for long stretches of time. Clergy collars fit differently. Robes pull differently. Even pulpits and lecterns are often built for taller bodies with broader shoulders.

And then there’s the commentary.

Clergywomen receive far more comments about how we look than our male colleagues ever do. Our hair. Our clothes. Our shoes. Our weight. Whether we look “pastoral enough” or “professional enough” or “approachable enough.” We are praised and critiqued in the same breath. Well-meaning comments pile up, and over time they shape how we move through the world. We become hyper-aware of ourselves, of our bodies, of how we are being perceived—sometimes even while we are preaching the gospel.

So we adapt. We manage. We make do.

We tape mic packs inside waistbands. We choose outfits based on equipment rather than comfort. We keep our hair in styles that don’t quite feel like us because they’re “easier.” We tolerate distractions during worship because asking for something different feels like one more thing, one more ask, one more potential judgment.

That’s why asking for a different microphone mattered so much. Not because of the mic itself, but because of what it represents. It was a small act of advocacy in a system that often expects women to quietly accommodate. And the thing is—when I finally asked, the answer was simple. The solution already existed. It had existed for years.

This is not just about microphones or hair or clothing. It’s about reminding ourselves that our needs are not inconveniences. Our bodies are not problems to be managed. Our comfort and presence in worship are not optional.

So here’s the reminder I want to offer, especially to clergywomen colleagues: you are allowed to ask for what helps you do your ministry well. You are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to name what isn’t working. And you are allowed to trust that advocating for yourself is not a failure of humility—it is an act of wisdom, care, and sustainability.

May we keep learning to ask. And may we keep reminding one another that we are worth the asking.