For quite a few months I’ve been wearing a beard and long hair (think of Eric Clapton of the 70s). It’s working wonders as an attraction to American crowd (I get no end of people confusing me with a guy from “The Lost” - Are they still lost? After all these years?) but if you don’t watch out this hair will make you look like Bob Marley of the 60s.
In Midtown, where I live now, I still don't know a respectable place for a haircut. I always disliked chains, especially when they charge you forty dollars for twenty minutes of work. Of course, you see those human weathercocks spinning on the spot in the middle of 6th avenue, in wind and cold, to pester you with their leaflets - "Barber shop, haircut, 12, we do any style". Twelve dollars, do prices like that even exist?
It was on the 2nd avenue, however, that I surrendered. I entered a place, nothing spectacular, but not too dirty either. I took a seat, opened a book but my eyes wandered off to the barbers in front of me. Two gloomy, unshaved mugs, both at work, clipping. The Caucasians? The Chechens, maybe Azeri? From those quarters, no doubt. I tried to concentrate on reading but I couldn’t.
One more barber, a little, wiry, monkey-like creature, emerged from a closet.
- Next?
I sprang up but guessed that at a place like this they might not take cards.
- Do you accept cards?
- No, only cash.
- Ah, sorry, then I’ll just run across the street. I'll be back.
I ran out - and, luckily, there was “Duane Reade” just across. It occurred to me to simply forget about it - it was clearly a bad decision to shed my earmuffs when the wind was so biting cold - but I realized, to my disappointment, that I had left my book on the seat.
I got the money and came back only to discover that my barber (the short fellow with long arms) was now occupied with another client - a little boy. I thought that in his profession long arms could be an advantage, and as to his height, he can always lower the pneumatic chair. The boy, making faces in the mirror, was watched by an Asian-looking mother who sat next to me, holding another little boy on her lap, also due for a haircut. Two kids would be expensive at another place.
- Next? Professor?
One of the barbers, a big, burly man has just finished his client. I thought it was me he meant, perhaps referring to my beard, long hair and a book in hand. A typical Sharikov. How many Sharikovs and Shvonders pose as barbers! I lunged forward but the little boy sprang from the mother’s lap and ran to the chair first. The barber protested, explaining to the mother in uncertain English that I was here first and it was me that he meant when calling for the next. There was a momentary confusion as I offered my place to the boy but the mother insisted I go first. All right. I took my seat in front of the mirror and thought what a torture it must be for some of us to watch this potato, this small piece of dirt magnified hundred times, continuously for thirty minutes. Was it Serge Gainsbourg or Jean-Paul Sartre? My musing was interrupted by a sharp, aggressive voice:
- Ну ты вообще охуел? Человек тебе сказал, сейчас вернусь, возьму деньги, а ты его на хуй послал. Гандон, бля!
My God. It was too late to leave - I was already strapped to the chair with an apron. The little monkeish barber snapped back:
- А шо, он будет ходить, а у меня клиент ждет.
Stare in the mirror, I thought, straight ahead, make a silly, satisfied face. Don't try to look too clever.
- Он твой клиент, он, сука бля! Я тебе сказал подождать, а ты пошел других брать! Гандон, бля!
- Сам гандон.
- Ты как с боссом разговариваешь, мать твою! Да я тебя, шавку, на улице подобрал ...
I made an effort, for Doctor Bormenthal’s sake. I turned to them:
- No worries, it's all right.
With awkward gestures restricted by the apron I was trying to pacity them. They were brawling over who goes first, me or the boy, weren’t they?
I gave him instructions and he started clipping away. Less Bob Marley, more Eric Clapton. But of course, I could have expected his
- Where are you from, my friend?
Gosh. This annoying New York question. Has there ever been a silent barber? How I envy Athos who trained Grimaud to talk to him in nods in winks! When people belong to different social species they have hardly anything to discuss.
Where am I from? It will be impossible to convince this fine specimen of a different social clade that I розумiю виключно спiвучу украïнську мову.
- I am from France.
If the word “Ukraine” produces confusion "France" always makes people happy. His face relaxed and he livened up.
- Oh, France! Bonjur! France is a good country. Merci. O reyvuar. Vu parle fransey?!
Quick. Smile. Speak fast. When you speak fast you make a perfect impression. Just make the perfect "r" sound. It impresses them.
- Mais oui, naturellement! Vous aussi? Vous l'avez appris où?
I smiled and reclined with ease, a nonchalant French Monsieur. The barber regained his good spirits. He didn’t understand a word of what I was saying but it wasn’t important.
- Cus quo se?
- Qu'est-ce que c'est quoi?
He puckered his brow as he was lost here. Let’s try to teach him to pronounce it in the French way. This will gain me some time.
- Qu'est-ce que c'est?
- Cus quo se.
- Qu'est ...
- Qu ...
- Non, qu'est ...
- Qe ...
- Yes, that's better.
- But you don't look like French. You look like you are ... from ... Spain.
- I know. My father was Bulgarian.
- But born French?
- Yes.
Excellent! In my head I was running through a story of one French woman I met in New York, a daughter of Bulgarian diplomats born and raised in Paris. But Paris won't do. I don't know Paris well. Something from books, something from Google maps. But I don't even know which arrondissement is on which rive. Anyone will figure me out.
- I am from Lille, you know?
Lille, it's perfect. Nobody knows about Lille.
- Lilya? No, never heard of it.
- No, Lille. This is a nice town in the North. Close to Belgium.
- Oh. Belgium is good. Maybe I'll go one day ... You work in UN?
UN headquarters were on the 1st avenue, five minute walk from here. Yes, let's talk about my job, not France.
- No, I work at a company. I am a biologist. We transpant DNA and make monsters.
- Monsters? Ah, OK ... But tell me, why they, all who work in UN, know French? They come here, like, even black people! From Africa! And all speak French! I mean, why not Russian?
Stay calm. Show yourself disinterested. After all, the French care only about themselves. Ignore all these mentions of the Africans and Russians.
- OK, my friend. That looks good? Good. A bit shorter here? OK.
- Thanks. That'll do. C'est pour vous, Monsieur.
I survived. I gave him a fiver for a tip when I got up.
- O reyvuar, my friend!
I nodded, grabbed my jacket and ran out. The boy rushed to the chair behind me.
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01.09.2010 06:16
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Тихо, тихо ползи, Улитка, по склону Фудзи, Вверх, до самых высот!
Хмм, но как проницательно это вы, однако! Да, если вы про последний рассказ, то теперь я вижу: экзотическое место, "цветной" абориген, белый сноб-интеллектуал. Но, клянусь, если и получилось, то несознательно. Меня Моэмом (или как его называют в англоязычных странах, Момом) знающие люди часто корили. А один "незнающий" (в той же Атланте) подошел и спросил: "We know you're Russian. Why do you speak with this ridiculous British accent? Do you think you're better than us?".
рекомендую - коль ты таки решился на публичность, (чему я несказанно рад) - заходить в нашу общалку тут
http://www.reshetoria.ru/obsuzhdeniya/kuluary/
одна из фишек Решетории в том, что там, в Общалке, есть достаточно много интересных и увлекающихся литературой людей - обсуждаются любые темы, не всегда быстро - это не чат, но местный паубличный форум - ьыстрее со всеми познакомишься
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