Meet the Asian Vanilla Ice

What the.. ?  There are already too many Vanilla Ices in the world..

This story begins with me preparing for a presentation at work, which included a trip to a barber for what should have been a simple beard and hair trim.  The simple objective was to try and look presentable for a potential video teleconference.  The conference itself would include passing 'IT trade secrets' (aka, stuff you could probably just Google, anyway) to some engineers in the Czech Republic bent on taking the jobs of my co-workers and friends (and quite possibly my own) someday.  The details of that story, Making and Sleeping in Your Own Outsourced Bed, will have to wait for another blog entry, another time.

I pulled into this new barber shop near my house, and before I could exit my truck, I was accosted by a somewhat chic, chubby, flamboyant, middle-aged Vietnamese dude named James.

"Hey, nice truck!" James says.  "How much you pay for yo cover?  I want to buy a truck and get cover." 

I had no idea at this point James was really just laying the groundwork to sell me on a haircut, but we talked about the tonneau soft cover, and I showed him how it worked.  Then, I learned that this guy was the barber when he asked, "Hey you need haircut?  Roo come inside now.  I cut you very rell."

I followed James inside his salon.

He asked me what I was looking to do with my hair, so I told him, "just a trim off the top, and the beard, please."  I let him know I was cleaning up for a work presentation the next day and needed to look somewhat professional.

He sat me down, told me "no problem man," and informed me that he was one great stylist from Beverly Hills.  He's got a certificate to prove it after all, which he then broke out to show me.  James tells me he is going to make me 'look so hot', and 'young.'  I don't think I liked the idea of looking 'young,' so much, but I assumed he just meant 'younger', since English was his second language. 

Nothing could have prepared me for what was coming.

We enjoyed a chat about Vietnamese food, his family, life and the culture in America as he zoomed around my chair checking my noggin out as if he was inspecting a questionable basket of imported Mexican produce.  I started to notice his belly keeps rubbing and bumping against both me and the chair as he flies around, but  I am not sure at this point if it is on purpose, or if he is just really into his work and doesn't notice.  I chuckle.  Bump - there's that 'buddha belly' again, against my arm.  Bink, there it is against my back.

He took out his razor, and immediately cut deep into my beard - on razor level 0!!  Noooooo!!!  It cut allmost straight to the skin, so the beard 'trim' has flown the coop for good.  I know there is nothing I can do about it, so I smile and figured I had better let James do his thing.  I didn't want to cramp his styling mojo.  He had, after all, some stylist certificate he probably printed out on his home PC. 

He proceeds to shave pretty much ALL of the beard off, except for a little asian 'mostly-moustache-but-almost-goatee' stubble.  You know the kind - really weird, like the guy's 'stache who wanders around pretending not to be involved with the business at a nail salon / asian massage parlor. 

This shave also makes my neck look as white as a stormtrooper's helmet, in contrast to my Arizona summer golfer / farmer tan. 

"Omygherd. I'm screwed," I realize.  I know as an emotional softie I just can't hurt James' feelings....  In addition, I do not want to destroy his artistic vision, especially since he isn't finished with my head yet.

"Maybe I can catch some sun and blend the tan lines a bit," I try to reassure myself, which is hardly reassuring enough.  
Suddenly, James began to chew on my hair with the clippers without any warning.  He just started shaving away the sides on razor level 1..  Once the clippers hit the scalp on level 1, I know it is all over - and I just can't stop him now.  I intuitively feel what is coming next - the infamous North Korean Dictator Side-Shave.  As he continues his madness, I can see the profile slowly forming.  It is terrifying, yet somewhat exhiliarating to watch happen in person, in the chair.  
"I am Kim Jong X" I whisper to myself.  "Powerful, yet extremely insecure."  

I figured this was all going down whether I liked it or not at this stage, and I am honestly loving this chat time with such an interesting, eclectic person, so - at this point - just let 'er rip, James, I am at your mercy!

While James continues to hack away, our rapport has apparently grown to the point he feels he can really open up with me now.  I would have assumed this was a good thing, until he asks me,

"hey you know where I find adult bookstore in Geerbert?"

James was obviously very new to Gilbert, Arizona.  I chuckle and tell him that I don't think he'll find anything like that here in 'Geerbert.'  I do tell him about Castle Boutique in E. Phoenix, which you probably can't miss if you ever drive by the area.  James excitedly scribbles Castle Boutique (or maybe it looked more like 'Casser Borteek' but I didn't peek) down on a scrap of paper.

James continues chopping and chatting away.  He then finds it seemingly appropriate to ask,

 "Hey, sometime rood you rike to watch adurt feerm with me sometime maybe?"

Really???  Did that just happen?  No, way.  No, freaking way! It really did! Now I am forced to consider whether all the belly rubbing is more than simple 'incidental contact' - but I'm not going to jump to conclusions and throw a penalty flag just yet - nor do I really care much.  This James character is priceless! 

I pretty much just ignored the question and changed the subject, but I am grossed out, laughing my tush off, and somewhat flattered in a bizarre way all at the same time.  I'm struggling to hide the belly laughs that are just aching to come out, which feels a lot like trying really hard to hold a drunk puke down.  I succeed in holding it in, for the most part, outside of a quirky little smirk that turns into a light, punchy fake cough.
James proceeds to give me the worst haircut of my life. 

Or, is it the best? 
While I am pondering this, James finishes, con gusto.

"ROOK!!!  I make you rook just rike VANEERA ICE!!!"

There is no doubt any longer.  This is the best haircut of my life.  

James deserved more than the $10 tip I would end up leaving for him.

Woooot!!  The pimp Korean Dictator / Vanilla Ice dream cut.  My imagination slips and slides between the hysterical laughter this haircut (and new stormtrooper tan line) will elicit during my upcoming teleconference - and some new, budding idea - that I could possibly have a lucrative, exciting future as the first Asian Vanilla Ice (AVI), if I would just be willing to let Calgon take me away from it all and move to SE Asia.
As surprisingly tempting as moving to Vietnam to do cheap variety TV shows and high-end karaoke gigs is to me at this strange point in my life, reason prevails.
 
"Gee.  Thanks!" I chortle in a very high voice, barely getting the words out while trying not to laugh my ace off the rather slippery barber's chair - and yes, weeing in my pants just a bit.
I do look pretty fly, for a white guy.  Maybe I need to think this through?

I start to dream, and my mouth to water, about how very, very well the new AVI would get to eat in Vietnam. 

Mmmmm.  Pass the fish sauce.