October 26, 2000

stranded and shorn

Somehow, by the hand of some perverse little god who doesn't have much to do with himself besides driving me slowly insane, I've been stranded out here in Redwood City, waiting for a shuttle to the CalTrain which I've already missed twice by the margin of a glance and desperate holler -- too late! -- after a deaf driver. At least my laptop is with me, and this is therefore time spent well, if not necessarily wisely. I have a paper and a database modeling assignment, both due within the next week, plus a C++ project that I could (admittedly) whip off in the space of an hour or two, with corresponding documentation that would probably take longer than all the coding put together. I could spend my waiting time doing those things, instead. It occurs to me, though, that I'll be in Japan for a week starting Sunday, and I've not done proper penance for not doing any journal entries, and so...

...well. Everything needs an excuse. And I don't feel like doing my paper, anyway.

It's 8:35 pm, and the next CalTrain to San Francisco leaves at 8:40. It takes 30 minutes to get to the station by foot. 15 minutes by shuttle. The shuttle probably won't come back for another five, ten minutes.

Can anybody do the math on this?

I have a college degree. I swear.

My hair, as threatened, is once more trimmed close to my head, and I've found (in conjunction) a pair of fat headbands straight from the days of Leave It To Beaver. The happy little Chinese man -- note how I've renamed him, at least in my mind -- welcomed me with a cluck of pleasure and stuffed me in a chair to wait. He was busy doing some obscurely smelly thing to some other woman's head; a woman materialized out of nowhere and claimed my jacket with a charmingly solicitous care. I, solaced with the company of an Orson Scott Card book I'd never read, settled down in my cushions and entertained myself quite cheerfully for the half hour it took him to finish.

Then it was my turn.

"How you doing?" he wanted to know. He beamed happily. "You need shampoo, eh? Okay. I shampoo. You come here, please, and I do shampoo."

I submitted meekly to the process of wrapping the rest of me in swaddling cloth -- mustn't let water touch the precious clothes -- and luxuriated for a little while under determined little fingers (massage massage massage) and hot water.

There was another hair stylist in the shop, who was busily sweeping up after the previous customer. She and my hairstylist were engaging in an enthusiastic argument of some sort. Chinese was exploding in little fits and spurts above me. When one's head is being kneaded, one lets little things like that slide by without comment.

The customary procedure for my hairdresser is as follows:

1. Strangle fat-necked client in plastic.
2. Wash fat-necked client's head.
3. Rub fat-necked client's ears dry. Pat pat, scrub. Swoosh.
4. Put fat-necked client in adjustable chair.
5. Put magazines in front of fat-necked client.
6. Urge fat-necked client to read magazines.
7. Start cutting hair.
8. Ask about the upcoming vacation: what will fat-necked client be doing?
9. Where will fat-necked client be going?
10. Finish cutting. Ask fat-necked client how fat-necked client would like her hair to be cut.
11. Offer pictures of starving Bosnian refugee models to pick from.
12. Listen gravely to fat-necked client's decision.
13. Ignore fat-necked client's choice.
14. Cut fat-necked client's hair.

Some things don't change. I do my hairdresser an injustice, of course; no matter how he chooses to clip my hair, I've never gotten any complaints about the way I look afterwards. Usually, I receive compliments. This could be because I'm so scary nobody has the guts to tell me to my face how awful I look, or -- which is more likely, if less satisfactory -- everybody's too polite to say so. I suppose the third possibility would be that I actually do look good, and for the hairdresser's sake, I'm hoping that's the case. I don't care how I look, myself; not, that is, beyond the vaguely unformed female fashion which is more biologically hard-wired -- prospective mates and the attraction thereof -- than consciously aimed at. I only look at myself for five minutes out of every day: passing glimpses in store windows, or bathroom mirrors when I'm checking myself for invisible, paranoia-induced pimples or warts. It's everybody else who's inflicted with my round face and new haircut; for their sake, (because I'm a selfless person, as I'm willing to tell anybody who asks), I always aim to have a good haircut.

Too, and this is another point I need to make in order to give my hairdresser the credit that's really due to him, I've only twice attempted to give him any sort of coherent guidance in the styling or cutting of my hair. It's true that he's ignored me with blithe unconcern, both times. I've long since given up, and now he knows to smile kindly and benevolently at any suggestions I might make, thus supplying me with the illusion of control when in reality he'll do what he knows is what's best for me. Parents do as much for their children; could he do any less for his poor, misguided little fat-necked client?

My roommate came home to my newly shorn head and rewarded my efforts with chirpy congratulations. My sister arrived shortly after, and seconded the compliments when cued.

"We like Yuhri's new haircut, don't we?" Smurfette prompted.

"Hm. Yeah. You're cute, Yuhri." She took a second look, hugged my head, and made a mess of my hair. The light of speculation was a threatening thing in her eyes.

"So....you want to have dinner with [insert male name here]?"

The math, it turned out, proved unsatisfactory after all, and I was left to wait for the next train at 9:40. The time was spent productively, however. There was one other person in the shuttle to CalTrain with me, who I discovered was named 'Vic'; there was, moreover, an older woman wandering the platform with the gloomy satisfaction of one who has actually watched the train pass by and been on the wrong platform for boarding.

I offered to buy them both dinner, and here we see how my character has evolved into a beautiful thing over the last few months. Even so far back as the beginning of July, I would never have done anything of the sort. I would have been too shy, too embarrassed, too concerned with how these complete strangers would think of me, not to mention too poor. I lacked self-confidence. Behold me as I am today: garrulous, inquisitive, friendly; I interviewed, with a shiny-eyed interest in the lives of perfect strangers, people I will never meet again.

I wandered home in sandals at 11:00 pm in the pouring rain, pretty well satisfied with myself. I have blossomed.