yes, hold the mirror right there

I am often surprised and humbled by my hairstylist’s insight. I itch for these hair appointments, but not for the shampoos and scalp massages that other clients may long for. I am rejuvenated by these visits to the salon because of Chris. Youthful and middle-aged, Chris is stylish, always well-composed in his outfits.

To me, Chris represents a slice of Vietnamese America. He is heavy with contradictions, distorted self-views and brilliant, critical awareness. He longs for Home but accepts Housing for now. He loves his culture, his people, but he observes materialism and ahistoricism.

Today, he is busy. He squeezed my cut between his late lunch and a color appointment. So, he rushes. Abrupt, we never really achieve a groove in our conversation. We skip the shampoo and jump into the work. He snips away at my very short hair—something we’ve spoken about as being very atypical of Vietnamese females—and he is serious, focused, more quiet than usual. I know today is not a day for hearing about the antics of his puberty-stricken, Catholic school son or listening to him reflect about his travels in Asia.

Yet somehow, Chris manages to slip in a few words of honest insight. After he began a color treatment for a white customer, Chris lowers his voice and turns our chit-chat about the lackluster of U.S. new years into a statement about what is American and why we never will be considered so. He tugs at my hair as firmly as he declares these words, “No matter what we do, we are not American, not Asian American. They see us as Asian.”

My mind jolted awake at his view. It may have been the sudden turn in our conversation. Or could it have been that his other client sat in earshot, just three-feet near? Or was it how I enjoyed the racial camaraderie of his references to “us” and "them?" In the back of my mind, I realized my surprise stemmed from a more complex seed. While I agreed with Chris and thus no longer take issue with referring to myself as Vietnamese or Asian without any qualifiers, I was shook by how deeply his words matched my thoughts. I was tongue-tied knowing that Chris did not need a degree printed on lambskin* to legitimize his reality. Yet since he did not publish a sophomore novel, no one else would praise his words. No radio would broadcast his truth.**

This is why I go back to Chris. This is why I return to Vietnamese America. As I listen, you hold up a mirror for me, reflecting back—at slanted angles— images of myself. Sometimes the woman I see is what I expect and other days I wish her ideas sat with more balance, her facts lined-up, or her words would slice soft with precision. More importantly, these mirrors frame our surroundings to focus our gaze on the relationship between self and society.

This is why my presence changes after a haircut, the reason why I stride these streets with purpose. As I leave his salon, I see my self in the world. Albeit angry, fresh, disheartened, uplifted, I can see my self. And I am a truer self.


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*Yes, these exist. You may find one framed in my bedroom.
**These are references to writer Monique Truong, who when asked “What is it like to grow up Asian in America?” answered that the question should be “What is it like to look Asian while being raised American in America?” Interview with the writer here.