A Sunday's Haircut

Today, a handsome Korean man cut my hair. He was tall, but not too tall. His long hair was tied in a loose bun. He was wearing a crisp light blue polo which fitted his trim torso well, the cuffs rolled up to reveal the fibrous muscles of his lower arms. His ironed trousers clung just right and he accented his look with a tan medium-width belt. Come to think of it, I did not notice his shoes. But I liked his chunky black watch.

Whenever he was not looking at me through the mirror, I studied his face. Unlike other Korean men, his features were not very feminine. He had just enough eyebrows to frame his chinky eyes. Above his thin lips was a fair amount of moustache which suited him. His aquiline nose complemented the planar quality of his angular face. He looked a little Japanese, and he may very well be a little Japanese. He reminded me so much of Tadanobu Asano. I thought that the faint keloidal scars at the upper side of his jaw which looked like stitches from the past gave his face an interesting texture.

Most of the time though, I looked at his working hands. They were good hands. Not too long, not stubby. Not too smooth with just the right amount of veins showing. His hands worked in swift decisive but careful movements. I wondered at how his whole body worked in the same manner: two feet planted wide apart, facing my side, his upper body tilted backward while his arms were raised to support his hands clipping away. Once he dropped the comb, picked it up, blowed on it and wiped it on his trousers while softly apologizing. Such reverence for a mundane thing such as cutting hair. He made it almost ritualistic. Then he ran his fingers through my hair lightly and slowly. They never tugged.

I remembered you. I never said it but I thought you had beautiful hands. They were definitely softer than mine and I was slightly ashamed of that. I remembered your hands because they had a penchant of softly brushing away hair that would always find their way across my silly face. I remembered your hands and how they'd butterfly across moments I decide I will never put into words. I remember your hands as they dropped a mug on purpose while we were in a seaside resort. It was a cheap simple mug emblazoned with your zodiac sign -- and hers -- you shared the same. Lastly, I remembered your hands as they had been on the metallic table of a fastfood joint, flicking a cigarette, fidgety and ever so remote. It was the last time I saw them unadorned.

For the third time the Korean man asked me if I was okay. I thought it was customary practice in the salon, but that's not it, I realized. I've been coming here every two months for two years now and nobody since asked me that in the middle of a job. Maybe because he was new, it was his way of being friendly, I assumed. I was rather quiet the whole time just smiling a little when he'd look at me from the mirror, shyly revealing a bit of his laugh lines. I was relieved that the language barrier prevented further inquiry. Because, "Yeah," I told him, "I'm okay." And I wanted to leave it like that.