Roots

I cried. I couldn't help it. This was the second time she'd tried and failed miserably. There was nothing I could do. There was nothing she could do. We can't communicate....it seems like it's always this way now.

In two days, I'll celebrate my two-year anniversary of being in Korea. Two years. TWO FRIGGIN' YEARS.

I don't even understand how that happened.

The first 9 months of being here, I snubbed my nose at all the people that had stayed in this country longer than a year. This is just a continuation of college....minus the classes. GOD, I can just feel myself getting dumber. Then I became one of them. Now I watch all the newbies widen their eyes every time I tell them that I've been here, "almost two years."

Two days before I mark this milestone and set off on another SE Asian adventure, I thought I'd celebrate with a trip to the salon for highlights and a trim. I usually revel in these sorts of things. Several friends of mine had recommended this salon. I was impressed with the set-up. After being ushered around and generally consulted about my wants and needs, two different people came and asked me about my color more specifically. They smiled and repeated the exact words I said with the usual Korean mistakes. It seemed promising. I foresaw myself spinning out of that chair with shiny golden locks that you only see on shampoo commercials.

After two ladies meticulously colored my hair and set it for ages in a conditioning "treatment," I was ready for the results. When the towel came off, my heart dropped. ROOTS....dark, dingy roots accompanied by god-awful streaks of orange and white. I explained myself once again to one of the girls. She apologized profusely and proceeded to re-color my hair, in particular - the roots. I watched her a bit more this time....and could tell it was going to be a hopeless cause. She was nervous. I don't think she actually knew what "root" meant or how to color it. I was probably the first white person she'd ever worked on.

After time number two came out just as disastrous, I couldn't help myself. I started to cry. I cried because I'm different and no matter how much they try to smile and make me feel welcome, I'm still a foreigner with a different physique that they just don't understand. I cried because I felt so helpless knowing that yelling, kicking and screaming would make no difference. They still wouldn't understand me.

I cried because of my roots. My dear roots that Asia just can't cover.

I'd give anything in the world to get in the Chrysler and drive down the road about 15 minutes to that little town with about 4 traffics lights called Maiden, North Carolina. I'd pull up in front of Backstreet Hair Company, forgetting to lock the doors and probably shouting, "Hey ya'll!" to an old familiar face or two. I'd walk in, plop down in the chair giving Teresa a vague idea of what to do and she'd start filling me in on all the latest gossip around town.

Two hours later, I'd spin out of the chair with shiny golden locks and absolutely no roots because you see, when you're home, you don't notice your roots.