Regular Life

Just back from the proverbial ear-lowering. A man got almost hostile in the waiting area.

I walk in, sign my name on the waiting list, and although all I can see in the big-screen TV is a reflection of the front windows, I can hear two soap opera actors arguing about somebody taking a baby. Not the usual fare at Sport Clips, but I don’t go there to watch TV. They give a good haircut, and I usually have coupons, so there I am. I spy a National Geographic under one of the chairs and grab it before I sit.

About 18 seconds after I sit down, a guy wearing a baseball cap stands up, walks straight to the TV, and says, “Is there some way we can put on something else?” He’s angry right away, and his accent sounds to me like he moved here from New York City. I can’t name the borough; I’m not that well-versed in the Big Apple’s dialects.

“I mean, there’s gotta be somethin’ else we can put on besides this crap.” New York says.

He steps far enough into the salon area to look at the two barbers. One’s a tiny young Asian woman (search engines, be gone!), and the other is a large, young, balding white man. “Could we do somethin’ about this? Geez, I don’t wanna hear about who took whose baby. I’m gonna go nuts out here.”

New York crosses to the middle of the room and asks me and the two other gentlemen waiting, “Do you guys wanna watch this?” He turns and walks toward the salon area again as I look up from a page of statistics on Africa. It constitutes 20% of the world’s land area.

This guy constitutes 100% of the annoyed and annoying people in this room.

We all chime in with “No,” “Not me,” or something similar. By this time, I can hear the employees asking each other how to change the channel. At least 10 TV’s, all set in shelves near the barber chairs, are playing the same channel, so there’s probably some missing receiver remote.

New York paces the floor between his chair and the TV, glancing the way of the workers as they scramble to change the channel. He apparently either doesn’t see or chooses to ignore the wide array of magazines available. Maybe he doesn’t want to touch them during flu season.

Ugh. Why am I touching this magazine during flu season?

The TV screen flickers. “Welcome back to ADT College Coaches’ Spotlight here on ESPNews,” a man behind a desk says.

“That’s more like it,” New York says as he takes a seat. I go back to the story on Africa.

After I get called, I walk up and the Asian woman reaches out to shake my hand. “Hi. Nice to meet you.” She also is reading a card that tells her she cut my hair the last time.

I remember her and comment, “Hi, I’m pretty sure you cut my hair the last time I was here.” Her handshake is weak and I ease up to avoid cracking her knuckles.

“Oh, yes, I did,” she says.

We chat a bit as she puts the number two guard on the clippers and starts in on the sides and back. As we small-talk about the holidays, she mentions her mother’s birthday is coming up. Her accent is strong enough that I’m fairly confident she was not born in the US. Ever the friendly fellow straddling that line between empty conversation and incendiary remarks, I trudge forward carefully.

“What is your background?” I ask.

“Asian,” she says, stoic as she keeps trimming.

*crickets* *bullfrog* *distant owl*

She laughs. Whew.

“Well, I kind of knew that,” I say.

“Vietnamese,” she says, then backs away from the chair and leans down, laughing harder.

She regains her composure and looks at me via the mirror. “And Chinese. One of my parents is from Vietnam, and one is from China. I was born in Vietnam.”

Saigon, to be exact. I tell her that I’ve heard of it, and find out that she’s been back there once, while China has never met her. She’s been in the US since she was 12, and just a few years ago she breezed through the US Citizenship Test. I stop short of telling her that I know several people born in the US who probably couldn’t pass it.

My hair is shorter, but my head’s still very big. I tip her anyway and walk out into the cool breeze. Here in this large metro area, I’m seeing the people of the world, one lunch hour haircut at a time.

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