Provided to the QAM News
While it was happening, I certainly didn’t realize that leaving my wallet behind could turn out to be such an enlightenment.
Before dipping in to Mr. Wong’s Salon for a quick wash and blow-dry, I had no idea what it would cost, didn’t care to ask, because when you land work in Honolulu, you accept, regardless, and then you find a way to deal with 80 percent humidity. And my way of dealing with it was Mr. Wong. Whose name I am terribly fond of.
“You got frizzy, I fix for you, yah, yah; then you pay me money, OK?” Mr. Wong said, pulling my arm in a way no one would pull my arm in Seattle without it feeling overly aggressive. Or mean. And while I hadn’t been prepared for such a pull, it didn’t bother me, either. Because when in Honolulu, the smorgasbord of all melting pots, it is strangely incomprehensible, when you’re in the middle of such a pull, to not read it as anything but eagerness, the nearly childish way some new immigrants display elation, those who haven’t been told it’s impolite and uncustomary —rude, even — to talk openly and ravenously about money, or the possibility of making it. My father was the same way. After leaving his war-ravaged country, he was so relieved to find work, any work, and to make money, any money, that he didn’t try to hide it. His excitement was palpable. Like a kid on Christmas morning.
“OK!” I said, happy to have someone to talk to after days of being on my own. And so I told this complete stranger the first thing that came to mind about my hair, how many hours I had lain on my back as a child, staring at a picture of Cher, touching my fingers ever so desirably to the smooth straightness of her hair.
Mr. Wong ran over to a table to grab a magazine, pointing with his comb at a frayed copy of House Beautiful he’d thrown onto my lap as if to say, “Stop talking!” Before I could flip through pages of throw pillows perfectly aligned on couches that always make me think that this cannot be a real couch in a real living room, he pulled me (again!) toward the back of the salon and pushed me (again!) into a black vinyl chair. Then he dipped my head under the faucet.
As a rule, I’m grateful for anyone who doesn’t make me to do all the work of communicating. Doubly in foreign cultures. I think this is why I was fine with Mr. Wong’s take-charge attitude. Because communication in the local dialect is trickier than you think. While pidgin may sound like English, or something close to English, it’s not all that easy to speak or to understand. It’s a chop-chop of English mixed with Chinese, Japanese, Filipino ― any combination until a transaction is reached. And what I finally realized is that the most interesting thing I felt about Mr. Wong was how his style of forcefulness allowed me to trust him more easily.
Later that evening, it dawned on me that my wallet was missing. I proceeded to retrace my tracks, starting at Mr. Wong’s.
People in Mr. Wong’s neighborhood went into fear mode. “Cancel your cards!” is what they said. “I no have Wong’s number,” said the woman at the Korean BBQ next to the salon. I looked to the other woman behind the counter with pleading eyes. “No worry, Wong no steal your cash,” she said. My spirit perked up. “He steal your Visa.” And the two of them laughed.
The African American security guard said, “You know, Wong is a Chinese name. You’re screwed.” Two local boys said I’d never see my wallet again because, as one of them pointed out, “immigrants steal you blind.” I started to feel more upset about the smear campaign than about losing my wallet. God, the prejudice!
The next morning, nose up against Mr. Wong’s window, I pounded on the glass. Without wanting it to, the discrimination had affected me from the outside in. Overnight it infused me. I had become suspicious.
Another stylist came running, “Mr. Wong have wallet for you!”
And there it was. My wallet. Handed to me wrapped in delicate rice paper. A braided ribbon made from Ti leaves tied the bundle together. I didn’t need to scan the inside. Like my first sense about Mr. Wong, I trusted everything was there.
It was.
Now, whenever I think of Mr. Wong, I can see how the whole of the world’s problems were exposed for me at his salon: This is how it is. This is how it’s always been.
That night, in my Lyft from the airport, I stared out the window at the moon and thought it was, in fact, laughing at us, we silly, fleeting, humans. How it can bare our stubborn foolishness and keep right on shining, I do not know.
Mary Lou Sanelli is the author of Every Little Thing, a collection of essays that was nominated for a Washington State Book Award. She also works as a speaker and a master dance teacher. For more information about her and her work, visit www.marylousanelli.com.