Aiya. I remembered about an hour ago that I have an exam on Monday in physiology. Of course, upon remember it, my mother hasn�t let me forget it.
�Are you going to study tonight?�
�I don�t know.�
�You need to study tonight.�
�I have tomorrow.�
�Why don�t you study tonight?�
I don�t get it. I really don�t. I have told her to leave me alone about fifteen times every single time she brings up school. She�s really, really, really getting on my nerves. I�m almost positive that if I have to spend all day with her asking me questions such as:
�How many chapters is it?�
�Four.�
�How many pages it that?�
�I don�t know.�
�You should get started.�
�.if I hear anything more, I�m gonna lose it. I�ve told her at least every time she speaks of school that the grade doesn�t transfer and that all I need is a 2.0, but she doesn�t stop. It�s really upsetting me that she doesn�t even believe that I can get a 2.0.
I can�t explain how unbelievably angry I am.
But of course, if I bring it up, she pulls her usual BS where she gets pissed off at me for contradicting her and then takes something away from me, such as my car or food.
You have no idea how mad I am right now.
I got my hair trimmed today, which was an experience all on its own. I called yesterday to my usual place to see if my usual stylist was available for the next day (today).
No, I would only be that lucky.
�Well, when is she available?�
�Let�s see�.Monday? Booked. Thursday? Booked. Next Saturday? Booked. How is July 29th at 10:00 am?�
�It�s just a trim�you can�t find anything?�
�No. The 29th?�
�No, I work.�
�How is August 1st at noon?�
�No, I work during the day�.like most normal people��
�August 2nd? Early afternoon?�
�I WORK!�
�Ok, how about Saturday the 3rd?�
�Fine, whatever.�
Two weeks for a trim? That�s ridiculous. My mom suggested that I see someone else at the place, but I was a little uneasy. It would be weird for me to go in and see someone else with my current stylist there, watching me, wondering why I was rejecting her. I know that I should have more of a spine than that, but I�m a chicken. So I started calling around.
Apparently cuts are a bit more expensive than I�m used to.
The prices ranged from $35 to $65, depending on the place. That�s ridiculous to have a half inch cut off my hair. I called a place near my house and it was only $12, which scared me. That seemed a little too cheap.
Finally, I called a place listed as �Princess�. How could anyone go wrong with a name like that? I scheduled the appointment for 1:00 the next day and finished up my confrontational-free workday.
I drove up to the place, finding myself in D, the Sweetheart�s neighborhood. I parked way in the back and walked in.
All conversation stopped. The stylists stopped cutting, shaving, plucking or whatever they were doing and all stared at me. All I would have needed was the sound of a record being yanked and I would have been living a movie. All conversations had ceased and all eyes were on me.
Apparently, I had picked an �ethnic� salon. I wasn�t as upset by this as were all the patrons and employees. They were apparently chaldean and shocked to see a white face walk into their store. I�m not sure if they were angry, scared, confused, or intimidated. I placed myself on the couch and took in the surroundings.
I was a little uneasy that all of the stylists were men: angry-looking men. Chaldeans apparently have a culture that is all their own, though. Teenage boys were walking in and out, speaking in Arabic, getting shaves, shaking hands with each other. There were girls getting their nails done and one girl getting her eyebrows plucked while having an involved conversation in a language I didn�t understand.
It reminded me somewhat of a mafia gathering. I�ve known any guy to go to a salon and get a shave with a straight razor, but there was a line forming for the service. They shook hands and high-fived each other as if they were old family friends.
Eventually, a female stylist showed up and said something to someone in Arabic. A guy pointed at me and she motioned for me to follow. I sat in her chair and she asked what I wanted done.
�I want to grow my hair long, so basically a trim. I want some style though, I�m so bored with my hair. Maybe I could have long, sideswept bangs?�
�No, I don�t think that would work for you.�
She explained that it would make me look strange with the length of my hair. I relented, realizing my hair situation was hopeless. She washed my hair and I could feel her acrylic nails massaging my scalp into submission. I couldn�t get the feeling of everyone staring at me out of my head, though.
I was thankful that she was not talkative while she cut away. I�m not exactly much of a gossiper in a salon. I prefer to sit quietly and think when my hair is being cut. In the process of cutting the layers around my face, she snagged my upper cartilage earring.
�Oh I�m so sorry, sweetie,� she apologized. I shrugged it off, the pain didn�t become really bad for a few minutes. She offered to blow dry my hair for $5 instead of $15, which I jumped at the chance to grab.
She spun me away from the mirror as she dried my hair and I saw that people were still staring at me and there was an angry woman pacing in front of the couch. Two of the receptionist girls put in a CD and started playing it.
I had to suppress laughter. It was a friend of theirs, obviously. He started rapping about how Sterling Heights was his town and how the chaldeans were taking it from the white people. There was of course the usual cussing the people against him could get the f*ck out.
Apparently Sterile Whites isn�t just white anymore. I shrugged it off while the girl continued to cut my hair.
My thing is, I don�t have a problem with other races; I really don�t. I have a problem with other races when they come off as hostile toward me simply because I�m white. No one in the salon did that, however, but I think that was part of the reason they were staring at me. I wasn�t �invading their turf�, I simply didn�t know that it was run by chaldeans primarily for chaldeans. After all, the stylist was really nice to me by cutting the price of the blow-dry.
She finished drying and rubbed some sweet smelling styling aid through my hair. When she turned me around, I was amazed. She had transformed my very thick, coarse hair into a smooth, shiny and lightweight miracle. I thanked her and paid the bill, leaving a generous tip. I saw the woman pacing in front of the couches glaring at me again; apparently my appointment had run over into her appointment.
It�s funny that the only truly hostile person to me in that place was another white person.
I came home and decided to start on my stew, which ended up not turning out that bad. It was a bit watery though.
Oh well, it�s a learning experience.
