We
live in a high-paced society. Technology has made services available at the
touch of a button. We have replaced phone conversations with
iMessaging. No longer need we walk to the laundromat to get our delicate
clothes dry cleaned, there's a service for that. Even dating and meeting
people "the old fashioned way" have become things of the past with
apps like Tinder, Hinge and happn. Being the proud American that I am, I
have embraced this pace of life with open arms.
Although
sometimes, as I'm venturing into the city or other unknown territories, blindly
following the voice of my Waze navigation app, I long for the good ole days,
when we used to take the time to actually look at a map and plan our
route. I almost can't remember the days when I actually had to hail a cab
instead of ordering an Uber to pick me up.
Luckily,
I have the Caribbean islands to remind me of these days. Perpetuated by
year-long heat and humidity and a lack of access to technology, the pace in the
lower latitudes remains much slower than our dear continental U. S. of A.
Commonly referred to as "Island Time," this pace can be
described better as a lackadaisical attitude that is frequently paired with the
popular island phrase "no worries, mon." When there, one must
opt to accept this speed, or lack of speed, in order to keep ones sanity. This
is especially true when dealing with any customer service worker, which is most
of them, under this philosophy. With 5 years of living between the
tropics and mainland America, the "Island Time" phenomena has
burrowed somewhere in my psyche, and tends to steer me into some fairly comical
fun situations.
This
all leads to the story of my most recent hairstyle decision:
It
all began with a Google search for "watch repair close to current
location." My Current Location,
happened to be the Capitol Hill East neighborhood on the good side of H Street
in Washington, D.C. This area, although safe for any savvy urbanite,
could be considered a "fringe" neighborhood. This zone hosts a
good amount of bus-stop loiterers. Shops tend to be equipped with a
buzzer-lock system to prevent common theft problems in the area. The
smell of ganja wafts from many of the local pedestrians no matter the time of
day. Despite all of this, H-Street is quickly falling to the clutches of
gentrification, trendy coffee shops and rooftop bars continue to pop up,
attracting the downtown professional crowd. H-Street, the main artery of this
neighborhood, marks the boundary between the picturesque Capital Hill and
rougher Trinidad neighborhoods and leads straight to the heart of the
crime-ridden Anacostia hood.
On
this day in question, I trustingly followed my iPhone navigation app, which I
renamed Barbara, and we set out for what I had hoped would be a
hole-in-the-wall watch repair shop. As I imagined the shop piled high
with treasures preserved only with the dust collected from years of neglect, I
found myself excited to see if the old man who was surely running things would
be friendly or crochety. Either way, my imagination had me geared up to talk
business while casually snooping around all the junk. My fantasy also
included a typewriter I knew would be for sale. As Barbara told me I had
"reached my destination," I scanned the shop signs for anything
suggesting watches or repairs. As I glanced confusingly from my phone to
to the Barber Shop sign that someone had inconveniently placed to play a trick
on me back to my phone, I cursed Barbara. How could she not have been
updated? I was not prepared to have my dreams crushed. As I began
to say goodbye to the fantasy of haggling over my watch repair with a mean old
shopkeeper while charming him into selling me the pristine vintage typewriter
dirt cheap, a friendly middle-aged man in an over-sized Raiders jersey,
sideways baller hat, and sunglasses (it was overcast) approached me from within
the Barber Shop.
"Can
I help you, Beautiful?" He asked.
"Um,
do you know if there used to be a watch repair shop here?" I glanced past
him to catch the eyes of our new shop audience of older Black men who had the
incredible power of making me feel like a scared lost kindergartener. It
looked like this shop had been there a while.
"No,
but we can help you out with a haircut."
Now,
this was not my first rodeo with the Black American hair culture and I knew men
had their barber shops and women had their beauty salons. This was
clearly a men's only Barber Shop. I saw this as my moment to bond with
the older black man and thought I could trick him, walking away with a full
head of hair and a few new friends.
"Well,
you know... I have been wanting to get a trim, but this seems to be a
men's only operation. Maybe next time."
Without
giving a moment of hesitation he told me no worries, he knew the place to
go. He turned and immediately started walking down the street, beckoning
me to follow. I paused for a second and looked back at the men inside the
shop. In that moment, an amazing thing happened--a series of
psychological mechanism collided and unlocked, releasing the "Island
Time--no worries, Mon" mentality. I followed him, like the
kindergartner on a field trip they had transformed me into, a few blocks down
and across H-street, where he delivered me safely to Yvette's Nail and Hair
Salon. They buzzed us in, and as quickly as he had decided I needed a
haircut, my new friend was gone.
Once
again, I found myself the spectacle of an audience of people sitting in salon
chairs getting their hair did.
"What
do you want?"
Well
I wanted to get my watch repaired and buy a non-existent typewriter but, I knew
Yvette couldn't help me with this.
"Um,
I guess just a trim?"
I
sat in the chair Yvette pointed to as she placed a cloak around my body.
Things were awkwardly silent.
"So,
just a trim?" She confirmed.
"Yeah,
I guess, I mean if you have any ideas, I honestly wasn't planning on getting a
haircut today, but if you want to experiment on me, I'm game." I
confessed.
Awkward
silence.
"Yeah
just a trim is fine. I really don't care." I broke the silence.
"Now,
don't tell me you don't care. You care. I have an idea. Have you
ever cut off half your hair?"
I
must of lit up and immediately knew Yvette was the stylist for me. I
agreed to her plan and instantly became part of the crew. By the end of the
hair session we were giggling, telling stories, and trading tips. As I
bid my farewell to my new friends, and they buzzed me back onto H-Street, I
walked down the now sunny sidewalk with the confidence only a new haircut
gives. And it was in that moment, I thanked my GPS Barbara for failing me.
