Brian's Barber
I have been going to the same Korean barber for almost two years now. Considering my lack of income, I have substituted “gay and stylish” with “cheap and convenient”. I deserve all the unmerciful shit I get for continuing to patronize this establishment since it’s been about two years now that I’ve actually had a decent cut. I could bring Brian a picture and explicitly tell him I’d like a reverse weave,braided extensions, blond tips. He’d nod in approval and I’d still sail out of there with a military buzz cut, #3 clipper on the side.
So the first rule in fight club is to never talk about fight club. The first rule at Brian’s Barber is to not say a damn word. Brian is the only quazi-English speaker of the three stylists, and I’ve had better conversations with a tire iron than with him. On Saturday, I cruised in on my way to the grocery and Brian pointed to the chair.
I sat down.
That’s about as intimate as we get.
As he was masterfully coifing my hair for enlistment, I noticed the elderly woman sitting in the chair next to me. I thought it odd that a woman was at a barbershop, but I’ve seen stranger things. She then turned in her chair to look at her stylist, and broke the first rule.
“How old are you?”
The female stylist remained silent and continued to chop away.
“Are you thirty?” She cackled with a slight Jersey accent.
“You must be forty.”
She was either enjoying the sound of her own voice, or mistook the stylist for a deaf mute.
“Are you married?”
Silence. Snip. Snip. Snip.
“You must be alone. Are you happy?”
Who the fuck asks their non-English speaking hair stylist if they’re happy? Personally, I like to use words like “shorter”, “good”, and “can I get five back?”.
She pressed on.
“You should adopt a girl. You should adopt a little Vietnamese girl. Those kids from Vietnam are adorable. And they need homes.”
Now the stylist looked ticked. While she hadn’t grasped the details of the conversation, she was quick enough to pick up that the woman had mistaken her for being Vietnamese.
By this point, Brian had finished his masterful work in under three and a half minutes. Not a land speed record, but definitely a top five finish. I dropped him a twenty and reached for my jacket, just in time to see the stylist pick up an unidentified bottle and drain it on Jersey girl’s head. She began molding it into her nappy hair.
As I walked out the front door, I heard the woman coo, “Mmmmm… smells like coconuts.”
I’d wager another twenty bucks it was sunscreen.
So the first rule in fight club is to never talk about fight club. The first rule at Brian’s Barber is to not say a damn word. Brian is the only quazi-English speaker of the three stylists, and I’ve had better conversations with a tire iron than with him. On Saturday, I cruised in on my way to the grocery and Brian pointed to the chair.
I sat down.
That’s about as intimate as we get.
As he was masterfully coifing my hair for enlistment, I noticed the elderly woman sitting in the chair next to me. I thought it odd that a woman was at a barbershop, but I’ve seen stranger things. She then turned in her chair to look at her stylist, and broke the first rule.
“How old are you?”
The female stylist remained silent and continued to chop away.
“Are you thirty?” She cackled with a slight Jersey accent.
“You must be forty.”
She was either enjoying the sound of her own voice, or mistook the stylist for a deaf mute.
“Are you married?”
Silence. Snip. Snip. Snip.
“You must be alone. Are you happy?”
Who the fuck asks their non-English speaking hair stylist if they’re happy? Personally, I like to use words like “shorter”, “good”, and “can I get five back?”.
She pressed on.
“You should adopt a girl. You should adopt a little Vietnamese girl. Those kids from Vietnam are adorable. And they need homes.”
Now the stylist looked ticked. While she hadn’t grasped the details of the conversation, she was quick enough to pick up that the woman had mistaken her for being Vietnamese.
By this point, Brian had finished his masterful work in under three and a half minutes. Not a land speed record, but definitely a top five finish. I dropped him a twenty and reached for my jacket, just in time to see the stylist pick up an unidentified bottle and drain it on Jersey girl’s head. She began molding it into her nappy hair.
As I walked out the front door, I heard the woman coo, “Mmmmm… smells like coconuts.”
I’d wager another twenty bucks it was sunscreen.
posted by Michael at 5:42 PM
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