It’s Christmas Eve and I should be thinking about the baby Jesus and shepherds and stables, but I can’t stop thinking about getting my hair cut in Chinatown yesterday.
I called the place where I usually go earlier this week and was informed that Brenda (my hair cutter or “stylist” as she probably would rather be known) no longer works there. And she never even said goodbye! Since the place is in Logan Square (which is a 20-40 minute trip, depending on how you travel), I decided to look elsewhere. I perused Yelp and found this place, which got amazing reviews. The only thing that made me pause was that it’s in Chinatown, which is close to where we live and is a great place to eat and shop, but I never would have thought to go there to get my hair cut. I decided to be a bit adventurous, though, and called to make an appointment (which took a few minutes because I’m guessing that English was a second language for the receptionist). I must confess that I was still a bit nervous before I went yesterday, mainly because I wasn’t sure if the language barrier would equate a bad haircut.
I shouldn’t have worried.
It was an experience I’ve certainly never had before. A very modern, sleek, way-too-hip-for-me place with lots of young Chinese men (the stylists) with big, styled, puffy, multi-colored hair busy at work. I was escorted to the back where a woman washed my hair, rinsed, and then put two other things in my hair (conditioner, I’m guessing, was one but I’m not sure about the third) and then whisked me away to Matthew.
“What would you like?” Matthew (who can’t be more than 22) asked.
“Uh…well…not too short,” I replied.
“Just clean it up?” he asked.
“Yes, just clean it up.”
And he went to work, snipping, fussing, cutting, molding, shaping. I’ve never had anyone spend that much time on what little hair I have left. No conversation. No questions (other than “It’s OK?” when he was done). Well, he also asked if I wanted gel when I was done and I almost said no because I was just going to put my bike helmet back on, but I thought, what the heck. “Sure,” I said. And it was like he was molding a statue, making sure all the little hairs created a work of art. It’s not a style I’ll keep, but it certainly broadened my horizons in amazing ways.
All this for $27. Not bad.
I’m trying to find a Christmas tie-in to this. There was a little blue Christmas tree next to where I was sitting. And the local radio station that plays all Christmas music was on. I think I’d be forcing it if I tried to go further. Only that it was yet another example of expectations shattered. And I suppose that’s incarnational.
