Hisan Says

A Haircut on New Year’s Day


Hisan says, “What, like you no know where she is?”

“Heh, yeah, misplaced her. We went out for dinner and I just lost her in the lobby… No, I mean she left me. She’s gone.”


“…”


“I think it was her New Year’s Resolution or something.”


“…”


“Good day to get a haircut, I guess, hey?”


Hisan clips away. Hair fall from my head, bounces off the shoulder, cascades down the blue plastic. Clip, clip. Bounce, bounce.


“Well,” he says, “Tomorrow be better. Tomorrow always better.”


Hisan’s words echo and do not explain themselves. I don’t ask. Hisan is wearing a new shirt. He cuts my hair like he’s renovating the Sistene Chapel. It feels great.


Every year, he says, he goes somewhere new, he says. He is going to Korea tomorrow. Last year, India. Year before that, Nepal. This year, Korea, Laos, Thailand. His phone rings and he steps away to take the call.


On the wall behind me hangs a gigantic painting. It must be twenty feet long and fifteen high. This huge, white canvas with wide brushstrokes of every color in all directions. At the top, right behind me is a robust, oddly shaped eye. It is staring right at me in the mirror. I look away. I examine my own eyebrows: My face is lopsided.


“Tomorrow allllll-ways better.” he repeats, sliding the phone into his pocket. “That was my friend in Korea. He is a Buddhist monk. I stay with him tomorrow night.”


Clip, clip. Bounce, bounce.

“I meet him somewhere, traveling, and he invite me to stay with him. So I go.
People ask me why I go, I tell them for four reasons and four reasons only.”


He steps to the side, four fingers ready to designate reasons. He points to each one with his comb. He’s not cutting my hair anymore. The eye is staring from the mirror.


“One, I go to be there. Two, I go to feel it. I don’t know what it will feel like, but I go there and feel it. Three, I go to think it. I don’t know what I will think, but I will go and think it. People want to know why I go, I tell them for these three reasons.”


“…”


Hisan is looking solidly at me in the mirror, combing his fingers. He tilts his head down, looks at me again over his glasses, combs his fingers.


“Memory,” he says, moving the scissors back into action. Clip, clip. Bounce, bounce.

“That is the difference between human and animal. Memory.”


The eye is not blinking, the hair keeps falling, and my face is looking more and more lopsided.

“I have property. I have cats there, seven cats. I go there to bale hay. I see one cat, golden cat, and he comes back maybe three, four months ago, all scratched up- I think he fight a rattlesnake!”


“Did he win?” I say, like an idiot.


“He win? I don’t know-- he is alive! He comes back, all scratched up, and what does he do? What is he doing next time I go up, and last time? He is taking a nap in the sun. He is sleeping! He does not care, he does not worry. He is napping. Humans, we remember yesterday, day before that, day before… Think about what am I going to do tomorrow, next day, next day after that… I know so many people. This monk I see tomorrow, me, everybody, think about past and future. This cat, he does not remember, no past, no future, only now.”


“…”


“Who has peace? Tell me, do humans have peace? No, always remember, always worry. People need to not worry, not spend so much time remember this or that. Lay down and take a nice, deep sleep.” Clip clip bounce bounce.


I look at the mirror. I am wearing my business outfit. I look good. I am not tired. The eye is still there, but it looks like it would close for a while if it could. I close mine. Once again, she has left. Clip clip. Bounce bounce. I get up. I pay for the haircut.


“Have a good trip, Hisan.”

“OK!” he says, waving from his new shirt. “Tomorrow better! Happy New Year!”


The little bell on the door jingles like a quarter you drop but don’t pick up.

Tomorrow will be better, I think to myself. Tomorrow always better.