The Hairstylist

Go into an American barbershop + you'll hear the normal banter about sports, the weather, local news. @ a Korean hair salon, it's a different story. The only noise you'll hear is snip, snip.

So for an Amerifob like me (a Korean-American who can't speak Korean very well) it's a perfect excuse to just sit there + not have to talk.

Yesterday, we're in the Chicago suburbs @ my friend's favorite hair salon. It's a classy lookin joint, as Korean hair places tend to be. Studio lighting. The stylists are dressed in black. The mirrors are wavy, the furniture new-agey. The chairs raise @ the touch of a buttom, smoother than my van's power seats.

Did I mention that I hate speaking in Korean? Unless it's to my mom. Because she always seems to understand what I'm trying to say, no matter how bad I sound. But even when I'm talking to a little Korean kid, I get self-conscious.

+ did I mention my hairstylist is a girl? And she's kinda cute too. I bite my upper lip. Definitely not gonna say anything to her in Korean + look like an idiot.

She looks a little older than me. Hair dyed light brown, kinda wavy. Wearing an expensive-lookin droopy green blouse. Eyeshadow matches her black pants. A ebony necklace + a big leather belt cinched high on her waist. If she were American she'd be smackin on gum, don't care about anythin hun. But no, she's a good Korean girl so she'll be polite + pretend to give you her attention.

She asks me how I want my hair cut. In Korean.

"Uh…just short. Along the sides. Short OK. Just trim. I not picky."

That's the gist of what I was stuttering in Korean. She nods + starts to snip away. Whew. What a relief. Now I can just shut up + get my hair cut.

I look @ her snipping away. + I wonder what her life story is. What she's doing in Chicago. What her family situation is like. What her relationship w/ God is like. I wonder who's really there, behind this façade of a nonchalant hairstylist.

Well too bad I'll never know, I think to myself. I guess somebody else who's fluent in Korean will hafta find out.

I can't even explain how to cut my hair to her. + even if she were good @ English, she's not my type anyway.

Wait. Why did I just think that? What is my "type"?

+ why does that even matter?

Why can't I witness to someone who I think is attractive?

Or witness to someone I'm not attracted to @ all?

When I look @ a girl…am I trying to get her for myself, or do I want her for Christ?

I realized, that I couldn't have both. If I'm always thinking about what I want, then I will be missing out on what Jesus wants. + that includes kinda attractive Korean hairstylists.

+ looking at this girl I realize, that Jesus wants her. + no matter what I feel about her, that's the only thing that matters.

I pray. + somehow my nervousness subsides. My tongue loosens up. + in the midst of the scissors snipping and hair dryers buzzing, I start conversating in Korean w/ a complete stranger.

How long has it been since you came to America? I ask.

A few months, she says.

How do you like it?

It's kinda lonely. I don't have a lot of friends.

(silence)

Do you live around here? I ask.

Yeah, with my family, she answers.

(I'm praying real hard here).

So…do you go to church?

No. I haven't gone in a long time, cuz I work on Sundays.

Oh. Do you get a day off?

Yeah, Tuesdays.

(I think about cracking a joke about finding a church that worships on Tuesdays, but I realize my Korean vocabulary can't handle such complicated jokes).

Well, I say, when I was living in New York, I was pretty lonely too. I didn't have a lot of friends, either. But when I started going back to church, I found a lot of good friends. You should try to find a church too.

Yeah, she says. I probably should.

Snip, snip.

She's done. She takes me to the back + shampoos my hair (it's one of those fancy places). She says her name is Yuri. She smiles. I pay the $15 + give her a tip + then een-sah (bow). I walk out into the cold winter air with my wet, just-washed hair.

The last time I studied Korean hard, was in college. I had a crush on a Korean noona (older girl) I was tutoring. So I bought a cell phone to call her with, a Korean-English dictionary to woo her with. But after she explained that Korean girls don't date younger guys, I haven't cared about my Korean since. I have no use for it, really, except when I call my mom. Or crack jokes w/ my Korean buddies. Or try to impress the older folks @ church.

It's been a really long time since I've cracked open my Korean comic books or the easy translation of the Korean bible. But maybe tonight, it's time to start brushing up on my Korean again.

"Whoever has will be given more; whoever does not have, even what he thinks he has will be taken from him." (Luke 19:26)

"Every new disclosure of the Savior's love turns the balance for some soul in one direction or another." -Ellen White

The Hitchhiker

I love driving.

But only if I'm the one driving.

I hate to ask people to give me a ride. And I hate when other people drive my car. Maybe because I'm a control freak. Or maybe it's because I don't like being dependent on anybody else.

It was the day after final exams, and I went out for a drive. Feeling so carefree. No homework, no projects, no tests to study for. I was headed toward my favorite Chinese buffet in Benton Harbor.

Then I see him. He's disheveled, with a plaid jacket and workboots. He's wearing a backpack. He's got his thumb held out. A hitchhiker.

I've never picked up a hitchiker before. Usually, I'm by myself and in a rush. Sometimes, I'm with friends + going somewhere to hang out. But this time, I'm with my friend Eric. We're just driving to town to eat lunch + celebrate the end of the semester.

I pass him up @ 1st. But I can still stop if I want to. A million thoughts race through my mind as I decide whether to hit the brakes or accelerate past. What if he's dangerous? What if he tries to knife me as I'm driving? No, then he'd be killing himself! But what if that's what He wants?

But it's the last thought that hits me like a ton of bricks: "Chris, if you can't help somebody the day after finals is over, then when will you EVER help anybody?"

I hit the brakes.

Where you going? "Mercy Hospital in Benton Harbor" he says. (Wow, that's gotta be @ least 15 miles away!) Great, we're headed that way. Hop on in.

His name is Curt. About 5'4, kindofa beer belly. Graying, wispy hair tied in the back in a ponytail. Untrimmed mustache, some stubble. Square glasses.

I'm a roofer, he says. But there aren't any roofing jobs in the wintertime, so he basically is unemployed for 1/2 the year. He's staying with his mom in Berrien, because her arthritis is getting bad.

He talks fast. Gets tangled up in his own words sometimes, but keeps sputtering along. "Going to the hospital in Benton Harbor to get my teeth looked @," he says. Need to get some dentures, because I just had a few teeth taken out. Can't chew very well.

Can you chew some Sweet + Sour Chicken? We're going to a Chinese buffet + it's on the way to the hospital. He says sure.

We grab our plates + pile them high with stir-fry, noodles, rice, meat. We sit down + pray for the food.

I ask him if he goes to church. Just started going out recently, he says. A local Pentecostal one his mom goes to. They're really teaching me to be filled with the Spirit, he says. It's really been a blessing in my life because I want more faith. God's blessed a lot of them in that church (financially, I think he's trying to say) and I wonder why God's not blessing me too. Must be my lack of faith, he says, shaking his head in resignation.

But Curt, I say. A lot of people who are rich + drive fancy cars, don't have much faith. Because they don't feel like they need God. Maybe God is allowing you to go thru your hard times, to teach you to trust Him. After all, faith is having hope in what is not seen, right?

That's true, says Curt. It's quiet for awhile as me munch on our food and think about theological things. Deep spiritual topics and MSG-loaded Chinese food don't really mix too well.

We get in the car + head toward the hospital.

"By the way," he says abruptly. "Do either of you guys want to buy a couple of CD players?"

He pulls them out of his backpack. They look like those $7 things you see at Rite Aid.

"I paid $15 each, I think. But they won't let me return it at Walmart because I don't have an ID and I lost the receipt. Please, I know you guys treated me to lunch but I just need to get rid of these things somehow."

The "Price-is-Right" side of me says, this guy's trying to rip me off. Besides, it's 2 weeks 'til Christmas. I'm strapped for cash myself! That morning, I'd checked my accounts online and was worrying about paying off my credit card balance this month.

But I look @ Curt. He's struggling to make it thru the winter. Living with his mom. Hitchhiking to a hospital to get dentures.

He's willing to take whatever I can give him, but I hand him 2 twenties. He's ecstatic. "Thank you so much, man, I really appreciate it!" Then he jumps out of my car. Crosses the street. Walks into the hospital. And he's gone.

I get back onto the highway. It starts to rain. I like rain, because I'm usually the one driving in it. I like being in control of the situation.

But meeting Curt, has gotten me to thinking. Maybe once in a while, I can stop being so independent. Self-sufficient. Maybe it'd be good to start depending on other people. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to be a hitchhiker once in a while, and not always have to be in the driver's seat.

"Share each other’s burdens, and in this way obey the law of Christ." (Galatians 6:2)

Bag Lady

She's a bag lady if I ever saw one. Leaning against the phone booth with a look on her face that said either drugs, or dementia. Spaced out. Didn't acknowledge our presence. Just stood there w/ her 3 giant Duane Reade bags, spilling over with random stuff. A green stethoscope. Some dishes. Rags.

I was with my friends Eric + Abby + Yoon Jae. We were doing an outreach project for homeless people in New York. We'd already given away our sack lunches. All the nice jackets + sweaters were gone. I was getting so embarrassed lugging around these trash bags full of winter clothing to give away. Rich people in Times Square giving me looks.

We were on a side street, headed back to the subway, when we spotted her. + her bags.

Her name was Jackie. She was distraught, her frizzy gray hair sticking up, electrified-lookin. Dirt trapped under her fingernails. Exuding the smell of old, musty attic. Supposed to get my $700 welfare check today but now they're telling me next week, she says. What am I going to do for another week?

No panic in her voice. More like absolute dejection. Like she'd already given up on life.

Aww sorry 'bout that, we understand. We nod our heads, uh huh. My parents paid my way thru NYU. But yeah, I feel your pain. She doesn't look us in the face. But we ask her anyway: "Do you want to come to a health expo + get your health checked out? It's @ our church in Queens."

She doesn't know how to navigate in Queens. She lives in the Port Authority Bus Terminal. So we write her directions. But she doesn't even have $2 for the subway fare. Do we have any? she asks.

My first reaction is great, another drug addict trying to scam some money from us. Isn't that what the TV news specials talk about? Another con man making $500 a day from panhandling. Trying to get something 4 nothing, instead of getting a job.

But this lady obviously doesn't have anyone else to lean on. Except this phone booth. + these bags. + here I am, telling her to get herself + her bags over to Queens so we can help her. God helps those who help themselves right? Never know what's in that bag of yours, Jackie. A crack pipe? Maybe a syringe or 2?

+ then I remember. I have a metrocard in my wallet. + 2 dollar bills. It's all I have. + might be all it takes, if I really want her to come.

So I give it to her. She takes it + puts it in her wallet. "Would you mind if we prayed with you Jackie?" Why sure. Let's hold hands, I say. I try not to squirm or stare @ the dirt packed underneath her nails. We pray for Jackie there on the busy, noisy New York sidewalk. Buses + taxis honking. Pigeons walking around. + suddenly I hear her. She's crying.

I feel bad for her. Reflexively, I lean over + hug her. I've never really been this close to a homeless person before. Her head is resting on my shoulder. Our hair strands are touching. I feel kinda dirty. But I also feel strangely @ peace. I can feel her calming down too.

It's late. We're about to leave. She's so grateful for the subway card, the $2. Now I can sleep in a warm place tonight, she says excitedly. But if we never see each other again, how will she remember us? We check our trash bags, the ones I was so ashamed to be carrying. There's nothing her size except a fuzzy purple bathrobe. Looks like something Hugh Hefner would wear.

It's beautiful, she says. I have a friend who would love it. + puts it in her bag. We leave Jackie there on that street corner + she looks so happy. No longer leaning, but standing up straight. Smiling. I find, I can't stop smiling either.

There is more hunger in this world for love and appreciation than for bread.
-Mother Theresa

"And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones...[he] will certainly not lose his reward." (Matthew 10:42)