It's incredible what you can accomplish without verbal communication. Namely, getting trendy haircuts. Yes, that's what I did. There's this hair salon in Chinatown that I often walk past called Hill Street Hair-- a very small, low-key kinda place with ridiculous prices. Good ridiculous, though; like Kristin Wiig ridiculous. Not Seasons 4-and-up of Weeds ridiculous. So I thought I'd give it a try.
I walk inside and this is what I see: a teenage boy in an apron, a pretty older woman chatting away in (Mandarin? I wish I was at least not ignorant enough to know what language I'm not understanding), a very old man sitting in the back with his arms crossed and staring off into space like the ceiling tiles were giving a lecture on theoretical physics, and two salon chairs. I felt like I had walked into the middle of somebody's living room, if said living room was owned by an avid collector of hairstyle magazine cut-outs.
I started out with some timid English, the kind where you put an arbitrary question mark at the end of your statements so you sound as nervous as you do uneducated. "I wanted... to get... a haircut?" I quickly figured out that I was far from their average customer and was worried they might just stare at me until I left, but instead the woman smiled in a very friendly way, nodding and gesturing to one of the chairs. As I got settled in and she began putting all the smock-age on me, I could tell we were both having the same internal monologue but in two different languages: "How are we going to make this work?"
Luckily, I had anticipated that language might be a barrier. Well, in this case, language wasn't really a barrier so much as circumstantially useless tool. "Going on a camping trip? Here, take this ceiling fan." The tool that proved most useful was, of course, my smart phone-- or as I like to call it, electronic co-dependency simulator (except that I need the phone more than it needs me... erm 0_o). I had already pulled up a few different pictures of the type of hairstyle I wanted. Kiera Knightley, by sheer coincidence, got the A-line bob I was going for. I felt sort of awkward referencing her picture, since it probably seemed like I was saying, "Make me look like this celebrity."
But even before I had pulled up Kiera's glamour portfolio, the hairdresser was about to hand me a magazine she had sitting out on the counter. We both got the same sense of how to go about this: point at picture and say, "Me want."
The rest of the haircut went fine. She did exactly what I asked for and there was very little need for words. In fact, she talked throughout most of the haircut, but to the old man and the teenager hanging out in the back of the shop. It felt like when you go to get your nails done and the ladies speak in Vietnamese without looking up, so you're not sure whether they're talking to you even though they're clearly not. The man said absolutely nothing the entire time I was there, and the boy said very little as well. I couldn't imagine what this woman could be saying to a wholly unresponsive room the entire time, but at least there wasn't the pressure of feeling obligated to respond.
This entire experience cost me $7; $10 if you include the tip. Put some what-what in THAT butt.
This concludes the hair cut chapter of today's blog. If you flip the page we will now be reading selections from...
Los Angeles: The Friend Zone
One of my best friends who I lived with virtually all four years of college just recently made her own move up to Los Angeles to start a new job. By "just recently" I mean she did it yesterday. And her job starts Monday. Girl is ON it. She moved into an awesome little apartment in Los Feliz, which for anyone not in the know falls in the Silverlake/Echo Park category of being a cute/trendy area with a downtown strip sprinkled with niche cafes, restaurants, bars, and shopping boutiques. It's essentially one of the nicer parts of Hollywood where the homeless people don't all run around in sequin-y Halloween costumes. Go forth, young people, and eat your quinoa salads upon cafe terraces.
My friend... let's call her... Lacy... (she might be laughing if she's reading this right now. Hi, Casey!) lives less than 10 minutes from me now. Words cannot express how effing jazzed I am to have her around. I have a few friends in the area, but this allows me to duck out of some of the worst of that whole missing-people nonsense. A solid 90% of my college memories involve Lacy and consequently, I would be 90% sad if she lived far away. Now that she's in LA I am 110% STOKED for us to check out all that the city has to offer. I mean, just last night we were going through downtown with her family, and on the way we hit a massive flea market/street fair type deal happening around MacArthur Park. Random stuff like that is EVERYWHERE, and now I have a partner in crime to explore them all with me. So, hooray for exploration and friendship and unicorns and stuff. This goin' be
I wish I could say the same for the next 7 hours of my life, but unfortunately I am leaving for teaching/tutoring stuff soon. Today is my first full lesson at the writing center so I'm a little nervous. But then I remind myself that these are good kids. A lot better than the ones I had when I was teaching at the IQ 180 Academy. The kids here are well-behaved, motivated, and tell me I look like Jennifer Lawrence, as opposed to the IQ 180 kids who would tell me whenever an outfit made me look fat (hint: all of them did).
I guess this means I should start getting ready for work. I wonder if there's a way I can somehow pass off wearing cotton booty shorts that say "PARTY WITH SLUTS"* on the butt as part of the lesson plan.
*They don't actually say that.**
**No, they actually do. They're from Florida.
I walk inside and this is what I see: a teenage boy in an apron, a pretty older woman chatting away in (Mandarin? I wish I was at least not ignorant enough to know what language I'm not understanding), a very old man sitting in the back with his arms crossed and staring off into space like the ceiling tiles were giving a lecture on theoretical physics, and two salon chairs. I felt like I had walked into the middle of somebody's living room, if said living room was owned by an avid collector of hairstyle magazine cut-outs.
 |
| It was the Christopher Dennis of hair salons. |
Luckily, I had anticipated that language might be a barrier. Well, in this case, language wasn't really a barrier so much as circumstantially useless tool. "Going on a camping trip? Here, take this ceiling fan." The tool that proved most useful was, of course, my smart phone-- or as I like to call it, electronic co-dependency simulator (except that I need the phone more than it needs me... erm 0_o). I had already pulled up a few different pictures of the type of hairstyle I wanted. Kiera Knightley, by sheer coincidence, got the A-line bob I was going for. I felt sort of awkward referencing her picture, since it probably seemed like I was saying, "Make me look like this celebrity."
 |
| "If you could take an inch off the bottom and liposuction my face, that'd be great. kthx" |
The rest of the haircut went fine. She did exactly what I asked for and there was very little need for words. In fact, she talked throughout most of the haircut, but to the old man and the teenager hanging out in the back of the shop. It felt like when you go to get your nails done and the ladies speak in Vietnamese without looking up, so you're not sure whether they're talking to you even though they're clearly not. The man said absolutely nothing the entire time I was there, and the boy said very little as well. I couldn't imagine what this woman could be saying to a wholly unresponsive room the entire time, but at least there wasn't the pressure of feeling obligated to respond.
This entire experience cost me $7; $10 if you include the tip. Put some what-what in THAT butt.
This concludes the hair cut chapter of today's blog. If you flip the page we will now be reading selections from...
Los Angeles: The Friend Zone
One of my best friends who I lived with virtually all four years of college just recently made her own move up to Los Angeles to start a new job. By "just recently" I mean she did it yesterday. And her job starts Monday. Girl is ON it. She moved into an awesome little apartment in Los Feliz, which for anyone not in the know falls in the Silverlake/Echo Park category of being a cute/trendy area with a downtown strip sprinkled with niche cafes, restaurants, bars, and shopping boutiques. It's essentially one of the nicer parts of Hollywood where the homeless people don't all run around in sequin-y Halloween costumes. Go forth, young people, and eat your quinoa salads upon cafe terraces.
My friend... let's call her... Lacy... (she might be laughing if she's reading this right now. Hi, Casey!) lives less than 10 minutes from me now. Words cannot express how effing jazzed I am to have her around. I have a few friends in the area, but this allows me to duck out of some of the worst of that whole missing-people nonsense. A solid 90% of my college memories involve Lacy and consequently, I would be 90% sad if she lived far away. Now that she's in LA I am 110% STOKED for us to check out all that the city has to offer. I mean, just last night we were going through downtown with her family, and on the way we hit a massive flea market/street fair type deal happening around MacArthur Park. Random stuff like that is EVERYWHERE, and now I have a partner in crime to explore them all with me. So, hooray for exploration and friendship and unicorns and stuff. This goin' be
I wish I could say the same for the next 7 hours of my life, but unfortunately I am leaving for teaching/tutoring stuff soon. Today is my first full lesson at the writing center so I'm a little nervous. But then I remind myself that these are good kids. A lot better than the ones I had when I was teaching at the IQ 180 Academy. The kids here are well-behaved, motivated, and tell me I look like Jennifer Lawrence, as opposed to the IQ 180 kids who would tell me whenever an outfit made me look fat (hint: all of them did).
I guess this means I should start getting ready for work. I wonder if there's a way I can somehow pass off wearing cotton booty shorts that say "PARTY WITH SLUTS"* on the butt as part of the lesson plan.
*They don't actually say that.**
**No, they actually do. They're from Florida.
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