I'm in San Francisco. I'm staying at a fab little joint downtown called Hotel Des Arts, where many of the rooms have been painted up by local artists. The walls in mine are covered in painted records, and it has the coolest frieze you've ever seen.
I was wandering about Chinatown yesterday afternoon, when I found a concrete park full of pigeons and elderly Chinese people. I sat on a bench and revised a present I was given by Sarah in Vankie - my San Francisco 1990 tour guide. (At least the maps don't change very much.)
I was wondering about what I should do when I spotted a CUT $5 hair salon across the street. My coiffe was well past coiffe and in need of a trim, so I thought "Damn the expense/language barrier/Vankie-stylist-with-whom-I-have-developed-a-relationship! I'm goin' in!"
So, I went in.
"You want shampoo?"
"That's better for you, isn't it?"
Nod. Shampoo. Fingernails scratch scalp. Feeling sleepy. Much jocularity in Chinese surrounds.
"What you want?"
"Just a trim please, same sort of style."
"Yes! Lots of layers."
A tool that looked a bit like a razor came from a drawer. Turned out it was some sort of razor with a funny blade that I hadn't seen before.
Slice, hack, slash. Fuck!
"Nah, I don't really part my hair."
It's looking a bit dodgy at this stage. The blow dry isn't really working for me, but that's OK. She hasn't talked through my hair plan with me, or asked me what I really want out of life, or listened to any of my secrets. Hair looking fluffy.
"Yes! Thank you."
I almost forgot to tip.