My sad new barber

My local barbers have been pushed out of their shop.  The success of the restaurant/bar that took over three-quarters of the space in their building undoubtedly has the landlord dreaming of bigger rent checks.   So, when I needed a haircut today, I couldn't walk over to see my two buddies.  Instead I got in the car and floated downstream with the traffic towards an old familiar spot.

The apartment building in Arlington where we used to live rests above several street-level shops, among them a barbershop run by a bevy of Vietnamese women, ranging from a lady of about 45 who seems to be in charge, to girls who look no more than twenty.  Anywhere from six to ten young women at a time work the two rows of barber chairs against each wall.  The chairs face a central register nestled against a four-foot square structural pillar that sits in the middle of the space.  The shop almost always is packed with military and business men who live in the neighborhood.  When I step through the open doors today I recognize the faces of some of the same women who worked here seven years ago, a bit more stolid and timeworn but still smiling whenever customers enter. 

Today I arrive around 2 p.m. and only three of the ten or so barber chairs are occupied.  One older man in suspenders is just leaving.  "You look handsome now,"  the boss says to him in passing.  His sparse hair is combed straight back from his forehead, and as he leaves he looks at himself in mirror and rubs his hand over his head.  No matter how busy or how many chairs are open, one of the barbers always says, "Have a seat."  And that's what the boss tells me now, even though all but one of the barber stations in unoccupied..  So I head towards the closest waiting chair, next to a stack of men's magazines.  But, before I can sit down, a young lady is standing in front of me asking, "You ready?"  She looks barely adolescent.  The pale flawless skin of her face, arms and shoulders says maybe sixteen, but probably not much more.  She has a round face and like everyone in the shop is smiling, the red bow of her lips drawn back over brilliantly white teeth. 

After I make my request for a trim, she sets to work with electric shears and comb, reducing a mop of my snow white hair to a pile of clippings that settle like milkweed into the indentation in the lap of the maroon barber's cape draped over me and the arms of the barber chair.  She is wearing a scoop neck sleeveless red and white striped pullover knit and tight jeans.  Just a hint of the mounds of her small breasts rise above the scooped neckline when she leans in with the clippers, in an unselfconscious, non-provocative display that I self-consciously avoid ogling.

The haircut, as has been the case with every haircut I have received at this shop, is efficient and a marked improvement over whatever overgrown rat's nest I bring in the door.  Truth be told, for most of the men who patronize these girls, the haircut is simply an excuse for what follows--a dollop of hot shaving cream and straight razor trim, then a hot towel draped over the head and neck, followed by a neck and head and shoulder massage that can last several minutes, depending on the press of waiting customers. 

I have been watching the only other customer in the shop during my haircut succumb to the charms of a massage.  He sits across from me and the young barber who is rubbing his neck and temples, his scalp and shoulders, wears 4-inch heels that should threaten her balance.  Despite her footwear, she works her client over like a lumberjack, kneading and gripping, at times putting her hands together in a prayer-like position and pounding his shoulders and back, from one side to the other and back again, with a loud pop every time the meat of the sides of her hands meets his body.  The client is a sturdy younger man in business attire--white shirt and tie, tan slacks and polished dark brown dress shoes.  His eyes are closed.  He is leaned forward in the chair and moves a bit in whatever direction the pressure of the barber's massage is directed.  The massage lasts all through my haircut.  When he finally rises to pay at the register he says, without being asked, "I'll be back every day."  The young lady barber smiles, in on the joke, although it may not be a joke.  "See you tomorrow,"  she replies.  

The girl in stiletto heels comes over and sits in the empty chair next to my barber.  The two begin to talk in the mesmerizing sing song of Vietnamese.  A hot towel is draped over my head and I close my eyes and allow firm small hands to rub away all tension in my temples and scalp, my neck and shoulders.  The hands are strong, applying just enough pressure to produce a lessening of whatever tension or strain I have stored in my muscles.  The conversation continues, although it takes on a different feel, which I sense in the hands of my barber, as she talks less and pauses in her movements several times before starting again.  Her responses to the monologue from her co-worker become single words.  She seems to get distracted a couple of times, rubbing the spot between my brows over and over and over, a kind of perseveration.  Then she switches to pulling her fingers across the ridges of my eyebrows from inside to out, almost as if she is lost in thought.  

The massage goes on far longer than I expect, what seems at least 10 minutes.  The conversation, which is mostly the sound of her colleague's voice, continues with few pauses.  I finally open my eyes and sit up straighter, and she grabs my shoulders like she is holding on to something that she didn't quite realize was there a second before.  She removes the cape and brushes me off a final time and we both walk the few steps to the register.

"I like hearing you talk together," I say to the young woman who has been holding up most of the conversation.  

"Do you understand us?" she asks.

"No," I say.  "You speak Vietnamese right?"

"Yes," she says.  I hand my credit card to the girl who has cut my hair.  She is still smiling in that distinctly oriental way that others have described as inscrutable.  "We were talking about my younger sister who died two years ago," says her friend.  

"I'm so sorry," I say.  And I am both sorry and feeling a bit like I've intruded into something personal.  "And her father just died two weeks ago," continues the friend.  I look back at the girl, who is focused on the pen and credit slip she hands me to sign.  All I can think to say is, "I'm sorry."  And I sign the slip, but add "Life can be hard."  

The girl looks directly at me, a flicker of something in her gaze.  Assent?  Annoyance?  Offense?  I can't tell.

"How long have you been here in the States?" I ask.

"Six years."

"Was your father here or in Vietnam?"

"In Vietnam," she says, still smiling bravely, but her eyes tear up and she has to reach up to wipe away a tiny stream of her grief that has trailed down one cheek.  

I hand her a tip, bigger than usual, and feel at a loss.  I want to step around the register and give her a granfatherly hug and the same for the other woman who has lost her younger sister.  I want to draw out of them with a human touch what they draw out of all of us who spend a few minutes under the healing strength of their hands.  But I know that no matter how much I am moved this is not possible and would be as much to relieve my own small sorrow as to comfort their great ones.  

Without thinking I bring my hands together in the prayer posture and bow slightly to each of them, like I learned in Nepal, the all-purpose gesture that can signify greeting or well-wishes or thanks and maybe even sympathy --the Namaste.  I leave with a weight of sadness on my shoulders.