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Skipping over the ocean like a stone

June 30, 2005


Everybody's talkin' at me
I don't hear a word they're sayin'
only the echoes of my mind


The time is neigh, my friends, I'm having a real hard time piecing sentences together. Work has been taken care of, extra luggage purchases have been cancelled, a bit of shopping remains, and I got a nice haircut. From a French lad named Fabien.

I discovered Fabien in Febuary of this year by complete accident. I had run into the local salon beating my chest, "Haircut! I'm in bad need of a haircut, save me!". This is unusual for me as I am quite comfortable remaining unshorn for many months. However, this just means I let it all grow long and it gets everywhere. There's even a phenomenon named after my hair, it's called 'Ney-hair'. Ney-hair is a really long, dark, strand of hair that is not attached to a head. Its natural habitat is everywhere. In food, drink, books, floors, tubs, couches, people, even INSIDE the compu box. Very tough thing to deal with, oh the countless looks of disgust I have suffered, "UGH. Ney-hair!". I tried to explain, I'm not going bald, humans naturally shed hundreds of strands of hair everyday, mine is more noticeable because it's long and dark. But their eyes, their eyes would roll. And so, I decided to keep it cut.

Fabien, fresh off the flight from Paris, barely speaking two words of English, that Fabien gave me a haircut like I never thought possible, without even understanding all my babble about bangs and texture. This past Saturday, I got up with the sole ambition of going to Fabien to pamper myself with a cut and maybe even a colour. I booked my appointment and pranced towards it with ears full of ADA and a heart full of hope. His English has gotten a lot better and we even bonded over the only things I know about France: Air, Daft Punk, Wine, Cheese, Le Pen, Chirac, Fashion. I didn't really understand everything he was saying, the feeling was mutual I'm sure. But what a haircut.

It was of a curious type. Instead of washing my hair first, he blowdryed it. Then, without any comb aids, went breserker. Chop chop chop, large chunks of hair falling to the ground. It felt good. I ended up looking like a futuristic Neha with funky razor sharp hair angles. I would've kept this look had Fabien not pushed me back into the chair with much authori-tay and screamed "Texturrrize!!!". Ooo Wee, the man kept me there for three whole hours. I shit you not, three hours, and I really don't have THAT much hair. While he texturized he poured out his immigrant woes of not having too many friends due to language barriers, working too much, missing the family and so on. Told me about how he wanted to study and go to university and his school counsellor convinced his parents that he was no good for anything except "manual labour". I wonder if he meant something else because cutting hair is not exactly manual labour, to me at least.

On our first encounter, I also had the chance to meet two of his best buddies who had come by to visit. And. They. Were. Flaming. I mean really, flaming, that is. These chaps were wearing the hottest and craziest couture outfits I have ever seen on a man (off the runway). They were slapping male asses (including Fabiens') and cat calling every tweezed dude in the house. It's not like I made a conscious decision to label Fabien in my head. It just...Happened. And it happened all wrong.

I only became fully aware of the shame I had brought upon my supposed open-mindedness when the desi stylist next to us half-jokingly said, "Hey, do you know any ladies that are into French guys? I'm trying to find our man a mate!". By this time, Fabien had gone out of his way to give my pauper ass a princess do, bought me some amazing non-Starfucks coffee, massaged my head in a divine manner (normally reserved for extensive makeover-type spa people), given me highlights, delayed all following clients, and did I mention he had poured his little heart out to me in the hope that my dumb self would see this as an offering of sweet interest.

The desi guy also noted that Fabien used to be an apprentice to one of the finest 'hair artists' in the city of Paris. So, of course, he could have cut the 2 inches off my hair, textured the length, highlighted, washed, and blowdryed it in about 50 minutes flat. I was there three hours. I left feeling like a pimp. Though I didn't behave any differently towards him, didn't lead him on, just yammered on like my usual self, I couldn't help feeling like I had somehow deceived him. Stabbed a jagged knife through his innocent daydream. Acted like a bigass hypocrite for having sized him so causally, so incorrectly.

This whole deal probably reads like a bigger deal than it is, I'm sure Fabien is still very much alive and well and macking it up hardcore. And me, I'm just surprised at myself. I, who have never been into deducing lifestyle traits based on peripheral characteristics, have finally succumbed to two gay friends and a profession in follicle-care. Pride before the fall?

Such is life and life will not be as such from here on. Lesson learned.

Fuck. It's Thursday, tomorrow's Canada Day, I've got 15 messages on the mobile, too many people to see. You'd think I was being shipped to Siberia. Two. More. Days. Till. Home.

P.S. I've stopped telling the Texans I work with where exactly home is, the one person I did tell freaked right out and said, "Neha, Ah've never heard of no Doo-baai, so you just take cayre and stays away from any crazies, ya hear?" Yeah, I hear ya, crazy, I hear ya.

posted by Neha
10:45 AM

2 Comments:

Blogger Wolfe said...

Fabien-killer. Tch. And after all that effort he put into your skinny ass. Tch. Very bad.

7/01/2005 04:34:00 PM  
Anonymous Lynn S said...

After my last haircut, which was awful just like most haircuts I get, I started thinking, 'I need to find a gay guy to cut my hair,' and at the same time felt guilty about stereotyping. But I'm feeling desperate. I haven't had a good haircut in ten years. There was a woman in Virginia who cut it just right but then we moved. I've been everywhere and everyone I've been to (all women) chops it off the same way. I've even brought them pictures! It's like they only know two ways to cut hair. They're all like that dumb blonde trailer trash chick on King of the Hill. So, stereotyping or not I want to find a gay guy to cut my hair.

7/02/2005 07:39:00 PM  

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