They Cut Heads

Historically, I'm terrible about getting my hair cut. I use hats to keep it contained but I tend to let it get too long. It gets way out of control, becomes sentient and tries to destroy the world.

That said, there's a haircutting salon that I've gone to for the better part of the last year or two. There's an older Japanese woman there who does a good job. It's a unique comfort when you've got a regular barber who knows you. (Or at least knows your hair.) When I go there, I don't have to explain to her what I want. I go in, I sit down, she gets to work.

And we don't talk.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that I got my hair cut by her back in college, when she was at a downtown location. Neither of us has ever commented on this.

I hate making small talk while getting my hair cut. You're sitting in a chair, staring at yourself in a mirror the entire time: that alone makes me squirm. But talking to my own reflection really turns my stomach.

So it is a pleasure to go somewhere and not have to explain anything.

It's a small salon near where I live. A Japanese woman, a Hispanic woman and a South-Asian woman. I sit there quietly while listening to the three of them carry on a conversation in broken English. And most often, I've got no fucking clue what they're talking about.

"He say he fix de wataa but ih no work!"

"He do it this weekend!"

"I doh know what he does."

"You see in theh news, someone putta bong on the plane in Germany..."

"A what?"

"A bong! A bong on theh plane! It deh terroris."

It's the strangest conversations. Three women from different countries in their shared workspace, talking with each other in their shared second language. Hours on end. Every day. For months and years.

Ain't that America?