Currently, it is a slow day at the salon, and the--I have just been interrupted by a stylist who has just realized that I speak English. Although it is rather interesting that my Japanese looking exterior hides my quite Canadian interior (Is it wrong to say that, when in actuality, it is Filipino blood which runs through my veins?), it is often discouraging that a city that promotes multiculturalism is also one in which residents are still inclined to ask me, in a rather slow manner, "DO..YOU..SPEAK...ENGLISH?" Bloody hell, I do. Of course, I do not say that, but rather, nod my head and smile in a submissive way; perhaps further perpetuating Asian female stereotypes. I sometimes think of what it would be like, to pretend not to have a firm grasp on the English vocabulary. That is, to 'arigato' my way through the day. Of course, this is not possible, if only because 'arigato' happens to be the extent of my knowledge in Japanese. And if, by some slight chance, someone truly Japanese were to wish to further the conversation, I would, of course, be left dumbfounded.
The most exciting part of my day involves emptying a bin of towels and dropping them into a chute. Oh, how fantastic it is, venturing from my stool into the depths of the salon. I have just disrobed a customer that smells of lilacs, and she has just placed a quid into the ashtray of which contents keep me nourished with food from day to day. (Mind you, my life in Toronto was slightly more, erm, nutritious). Although I am not complaining about the fact that clients are quite kind as to leave me a small amount of change for my "trouble," I do find it rather absurd to accept any amount of money for simply hanging a jacket on a coat rack. Granted, I do make a measly 3 quid an hour (which, as it may be, is under minimum wage). The above little detail juxtaposed beside the fact that I get paid for doing, quite frankly, nothing at all. However, this is not a good match for my personality; a boring person who despises anything remotely boring. Perhaps this is the reason I must busy my idle mind with writing.
The stylists look quite perfect in their industry standard black, when I on the other hand, look like a small, dead corpse in brown moccasins.
Maybe it would be useful to explain why I am currently employed by said salon, and consequently, why I am in London in the first place. My fascination with England has always been present since I was a young child. Perhaps this was slightly due to the lack of Toronto castles, or moreover, as my mum would argue, to the lack of princes. I must say, in regards to the fascination: it is dwindling. Though being rescued by a prince from a burning castle might be sufficient cause for fascination relapse.
THE BOREDOM: Something quite unbelievable has happened. Have I just robed Camilla Parker Bowles? Why is no one reacting to this woman's uncanny resemblance to the Duchess of Cornwall? Maybe it isn't her. Nevertheless, I pretend that it is she, and that she finds me particularly fantastic, and that no one else has ever quite taken her jacket as I have. And then she says"Surely Harry will fancy you, might you come to a royal party on Saturday?"Although royal parties are probably never referred to as"royal parties,"are they? Oh well. I stare at my ashtray filled with a quid fifty (that I have put in myself, mind you, as so patrons do not believe I am being paid to watch bags and smoke). God, I am really bored. How much longer will I be here? I have no idea how the junior stylists can last their ten hour shifts. Mind you, they are plenty more productive than I am. Today is Canada Day. My patriotic side tells me that you never realize how much Canada Day matters to you until there is a lack of Canada under your feet. This story is starting to seem incredibly dry, perhaps reflective of my life. So much for my desire of being published. Not to mention my theory that this job, by some twisted fate, exists solely as a launching pad that will catapult me into a career of literary greatness. I guess my writing will in fact, not be heralded as the voice of a troubled generation of university students working in foreign salons.
THE PARANOIA: Today I shall definitely purchase a notebook because, as visually stimulating as the floral pattern on this paper is, I am still rather paranoid that an accidental air stream of blow dryer current will cause my makeshift journal to fly directly into the hands of a stylist, or more embarrassingly, into the hands of"Mini Dan,"who then will realize that I refer to him as"Mini-Dan,"--and I am sure he will not be amused.
THE MISSING: One thing I love about England is how everyone refers to you using terms of endearment, as if a complete stranger is already quite taken by you. Rene hates when I throw away the words Ôdarling' and Ôlove,' and cheapen them by making them synonyms for just about any personal pronoun. He believes that the English, although probably quite aware of the meanings of these two words, are as equally unaware of the meaning of Ôoveruse.' Rene is my best friend, by the way. (Not to be mistaken for my double x chromosomed best friend Nicole, though they share equally girly names.) He is currently employed by a rather large chain of ice cream shops, and this is the first summer of seven years of friendship that he and I are not spending sitting mindlessly on Queen Street. I quite miss that. Though it is sometimes nice to know that this summer, I'm getting paid for my mindless sitting.
THE ASSUMPTION: He gives me a pack of Fruity Smarties, which, I believe, is my best tip of ever. I pop one in my mouth and try to be inconspicuous. If the stylists aren't allowed to chew gum, then surely a lowly cloakroom attendant is not allowed to eat Smarties. Oh well. I begin to dream up situations of getting fired from this job in my head. I'm awful, aren't I? Lady Something or Other has just finished a haircut and I brush the loose grey hairs off of what looks to be her Sunday best. Then again, she's a Lady, which makes her"Monday through Saturday"best just as good as Sunday's. I am careful to remove what I can, but this brush is being difficult. How embarrassing, a real live wife of a noble and I can't even brush the hairs off her gown properly. Oh well, I do my best, diligent and determined to get every last hair, though her face remains stoic. She asks me to carry her purse to the front desk. Little does she know, I am more than glad to do so, as I relish every opportunity I have to leave this tiny isolation unit of a cloakroom. I sit back down when I finish what seems to be the longest post haircut cleanup ever. No tip from Lady Whatsherface. I see her paying for her overpriced haircut through strategically placed mirrors. Some Lady she is!"If I were a Lady,"I think to myself,"Surely I'd manage to shit some gold out of my ass and hand it to the poor cloakroom girlÉ" "Two quid from Lady Dashwood," Joanna from the front desk hands me £2 and smiles. I smile back. If only she knew my horrible thoughts. Lady Dashwood is quite the Lady after all. I sink sheepishly in my chair, and avert my gaze to the long stretch of jackets hanging on the rack. Oooh, a Chanel blazer. Potential way to get fired number 32: trying on a client's clothes.
THE CONTEMPLATION: I'm early for work so I sit myself on a park bench. There are festivities going on, albeit it is still quite quiet, and the activities themselves feel rather resigned. Perhaps it is due to the weather---a rather grey sky, accented by brisk winds, which I find quite becoming. It is tranquil and a far contrast to the hustle and bustle that is London. "Just one question, are you a writer?"An elderly man interjects my stream of thoughts. "A wannabe writer,"I reply. "You look like an artist."He then asks me where I am from, and while rather polite, it is getting quite frustrating that no one ever seems to accept the fact that I'm from Canada. "She is not Canadian, she lives in Canada,"he says to his friend. Though I embrace my ethnicity, it seems to act as sort of a crutch. No matter how immersed I am in Canadian culture, I can never be Canadian, based on the colour of my skin. I did not mean to be philosophical today, but race relations and countries of origin seem to be such a major issue in London--more prevalent than what I am used to anyway. This moment, more than ever, is when I realize how"different"I actually am--a difference that cannot be masked by any amount of hair dye.
THE MISTAKE: Today I'm going to the cinema with Ania and I can't wait to get out this fancy black ensemble, otherwise known as my uniform. Or at least can't wait to get out of these trousers--the ones that are covered in a week's worth of other people's hair. I watch attentively as the minute hand on the clock ticks ever so slowly towards the twelve. 6:00pm: my shift is finally over. Eagerly, I rush downstairs, jeans in hand. I am a little over zealous as my London social life is finally beginning to kick in. I rush to the women's toilet. Occupied. "Shit,"I stare at the closed door, pretending my eyes have the prowess to will it open. No such luck. The men's toilet door on the other hand, is wide open, vacant, and ready for use. Surely, no one would mind if I took two seconds, switched trousers, and popped right out again. I mean, hell, no one would even know, would they? Easy peasy. I decide to slip in real quick in hopes that no one will be the wiser. I hurry into the washroom, and lock the door behind me."Gotta be quick, gotta be quick, gotta be quick,"I think to myself. And within a matter of seconds, it's all over. Perfectly orchestrated. Fashionable jeans on, hairy trousers off. I am so sneaky, so quick, so brilliant, so clever, and so stuck. So stuck? Shit. The door isn't budging, and I begin to panic. The walls seem like they're closing in on me, as unpleasant thoughts begin to fill my head. What if everyone has gone home? What if no one finds me until Monday, dead from starvation, lying helpless on the cold and moldy bathroom floor? (Wearing an impeccable pair of jeans, nonetheless.) Oh God, what am I going to do? I pull relentlessly on the handle. The handle has now come off. I am in the bloody men's toilet, holding a door handle that surely does not belong off the door and in my hand, and a pair of black, hair covered trousers. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I can't fucking breathe. I'm stuck."Help?"I whisper. Forget decorum! I bang relentlessly on the wall. "Please don't let me be found by a male hairstylist,"I plead with the toilet gods.