Not The Owner

I like the gent who does my hair.  I liked his predecessor as well.  Originally there was a Frenchman who had his name up prominently on a building down at San Li Tun.  He was from Marseille and his English was OK.  He used to play things like Supertramp and get really into it, singing along as he cut my hair.  We had colorful chats about his life in New York City during the seventies and of the house he kept on the sea side, back in the suburbs of Marseille.  He would sigh when he mentioned his son, who was an adult living in Beijing. The lad had matured into a right wing adult and they disagreed about the simplest things.   

This Frenchman left one day.  And I was told there would be a new person, clearly also a French person, who would cut my hair from now on.  Soon this new person’s name was up on the sign, instead of my old friend.  Well, OK.  The new chap had less English at his disposal.  I ended up speaking more rudimentary French. I’ve been going to him now for the last two years or so and we’ve developed a solid rapport.  It was only recently though that I realized, although they use his name to promote the establishment, he is not the owner.   This evoked a tinge of sympathy.  Whither your name, young man?   If you’re the owner there isn’t the same obligation to tip, is there?  If your shearing hair for the man, well, I can dig a bit deeper after enjoying our conversation.  

We discus politics.  He hates Le Pen.  His hot issues are xenophobia (it is waxing, terribly in France), gay marriage (the Catholics oppose) and terrorism (Paris has more than Beijing).  I believe it was during my last haircut I assured him that Trump wouldn’t win, so I needed to swallow those stray strands of hair during our discussion this time. "Quelle horreur!"  Sometimes you can find just the right French expression from the sparse cabinet of possibilities in the memory bank.  “Yes, its a disaster.  There are many, many ways this is awful.”  “Did you see what he did with Taiwan?”  “Yes.  I saw.  It’s just beginning.”

All the while my visage evolved.  Off went the Bozo the Clown epaulets from above my right ear.  “It’s enough?”  “Shorter please.”  The reasonable me, the me that’s nearly handsome was emerging from the marble.  The next side to match and then it’s all the long stuff up top.  “Yes.  An inch off that as well. Thank you.”  I closed my eyes as I suppose most of us would as he clipped my eyebrows of their owl-like fishing rods.  There I am.  I’m shown the back, which looks even.  “Yes.  Good.  That’ll do.” 

They rinse my hair beneath a wall painting of an enormous woman who appears mid-climax, rolling her Cleopatra painted eyelids passionately.  No blow dryer.  Now wax.  No, I’m good.  This haircut will be fresh now from immediately after the shower, for a few weeks now.  “Will you be here for the holidays?”  “Yes.  In Beijing.  It’s boring but it’s safe.”  “See you in two months or so.”