I get a haircut every month. I do so in order to control the beast that is my hair. If I let my hair grow out, it’ll spreads in all directions- and not in a hip fro or a cute Howie Day-like ‘do. I’m talking full-on Wolverine status. I’m talking hide yo’ kids and yo’ wife because my hair is coming to get you.
Getting a hair cut is always an adventure. I usually go to the Hair Cuttery by my house where they never seem to remember who I am despite the fact I show up there the same time every month. Recently I decided to go to another location in Alexandria, where I encountered the worst part of getting my haircut.
Shame from the Asian stylist.
I managed to walk in 15 minutes before closing. I got a couple of ugly stares thrown at me as the stylists already started to close shop. They lady at the front made me pay first so they could continue to close-up. I tipped generously.
As I proceeded to get the usual cut: a short, tight trim on the sides and back. The Vietnamese stylist looked at my face and asked the question I was expecting her to ask me.
“Where are you from?”
I gave her my usual answer: “I’m originally from Boston.” I waited for the expected follow-up.
“No, where are you really from?”
I delivered the answer she wanted to hear, “My parents are from Vietnam, I was born here.”
“OH! You Vietnamese? You look Filipino!”
Right on schedule.
“Do you know any Vietnamese?”
“No.”
“Oh! That’s a shame! Why don’t you know any Vietnamese?”
“I don’t know… I was never taught…”
“You should know! You are Vietnamese! You should know your language!”
This is the usual conversation I get with most stylists that cut my hair. Here’s the extended version I sometimes get:
“So you got a girlfriend?”
[I give whatever status I am at the moment]
“Well I hope she’s a nice Vietnamese girl…”
Did my mom hire all the ladies at Hair Cuttery? My haircuts are starting to feel like Thanksgiving Dinner.
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