Soon after I posted the last blog, I realized the title was also appropriate for yet another happy hair man story, aka the lame chronicles of a girl who doesn't know how to flirt in a language and culture not her own:
For the past week, ever since shops started to reopen, I've been trying to avoid passing the hair salon. Will the happy hair man remember me? I was afraid to find out. We ended things awkwardly, with me turning down his BBQ beef stick because of some serious stomach issues.
I was getting anxious because I inevitably have to pass there every day to get my grub on, and until today, no happy hair man appeared. Is he the same kind of migrant worker in Leslie Chang's book? The kind that switches careers and life plans (and salons?) after the holiday to signify a fresh beginning? Again, I was afraid to find out.
Today he was there! I saw my handsome happy hair man!
After spending the afternoon listening to Sashamon (making Rach a reggae mix!), I went to buy a box of chocolate milk from the store, and he was heading down the alley as I was coming up. I was busy jamming my straw into the box when I heard a loud, "HELLO!"
Who the hell says "hello" around here? This time, I wasn't afraid of the answer.
Turns out he had just gotten back to Lidu. Da buttafly on my shoulda was suddenly the butterfly in my stomach.
ohhhhh snap.
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