The start of many bad hair days

On Wednesday I finally decided to get a haircut. A couple months ago, before I had a “real” job I gave myself a haircut because I didn’t want to pay for one. I live in north Dallas, which is kind of known for being an uppity, frivolous part of the city, so i thought I’d probably have to pay more than I’d be willing to. I used to go to Bodacious, the salon in Kaufman, where my parents live, but they weren’t open the day before Thanksgiving, so I decided to go to the mall in Mesquite. I’m not very picky about haircuts, I always figure, it’ll grow back, my hair is curly, the curls can mask a bad haircut. I went to Regis, at Towneast Mall (I’m naming the mall and salon as a warning to others). There were only three people working, and a not too young lady greeted me and told me to take a seat in her chair. I briefly told her what I wanted and she started cutting. By the time I saw what she had done it was too late…I looked completely ridiculous, I was trying to be nice, but by then the manager had come over and said, “well this is bad, we’re just going to have to give you a new haircut.” He started shaking his head, made faces and cut away…by the time he was done I looked like David Bowie from the Labyrinth.

But he said that was as good as it was going to get, he wouldn’t make me pay and I could come back in a month for another free haircut. Ya cause after that experience I’d want to go back again.

I never thought I was very picky about my hair, or I really cared about haircuts until today. Now I’ve changed my mind. Thankfully my friend Ana came to stay with us for Thanksgiving break and she was going to get her haircut at a Korean salon in Dallas. I guess I should mention, Ana is Korean.

I’m not sure why, but it seems like all the Koreans in Dallas go to Korean salons to get their haircut. We went to Carrolton where there is a big Korean shopping center with everything from restaurants to a dentists office, bakeries, a yogurt shop, and H Mart, a full size grocery store with a food court inside. I was kind of amazed that all of this was here, in Dallas, and at the number of Asians that go there to buy their groceries and basically anything else one could ever need.  Almost all of the signs were in Korean, some in Korean and English. I was afraid people wouldn’t understand English, but for the most part, they did. I used to know some basic Korean phrases like, hello, good morning, my name is….days, numbers, but not anymore.

But anyway, Ana and I ran into H Mart to get some little Korean snacks and she went and got her haircut. I was very impressed, everyone was coming out of the salon, Leekaja Hair Bis, with great looking hair. I wasn’t sure if it was just their hair, or the haircuts. I showed the Yuri, the lady cutting Ana’s hair, my horrible new haircut and she said she wouldn’t let me leave the salon looking like that, and while cutting and styling four other people’s hair, she sat me down and started cutting. Thankfully, she did a much better job than Regis in Mesquite. She was able to fix the disaster Regis created, I might not love it, I may still wear my hair up with bobby pins for the next couple weeks, but at least I don’t look like an 80’s rocker anymore.

So, what I learned from this experience:

1. Unfortunately I am one of those girls who cares what my hair looks like.

2. Don’t go to Regis at Towneast 

3. Do go to Leekajahairbis salon at Old Denton Rd and the Tollway

4. If you are ever looking for a cultural experience or anything Asian, you can find it in Carrolton at…Old Denton Rd and the Tollway.

The reading spot

My first semester at Baylor I had a free period before my Swahili class in Morrison Hall each morning. I would usually leave my homework to do during the hour before class. Morrison Hall was caddy corner to Vera Martin Daniel Plaza, more often referred to as “emo park”, that’s where the “artsy, musical, hippy”, etc etc…kind of people would sit under the trees for hours talking, playing guitars, smoking, reading….. I was not one of these people, but during my first semester, that little park became my park. In the beginning I was pretty successful at getting homework done there, but after awhile it became the place I would go to relax, I started and finished many books in that park, said quite a few prayers, and had run ins and reunions with many friends and teachers. I even skipped class a few times just to lie in the grass or to just sit and pretend like I was doing homework. I think that spot was kind of like a little home for me. No matter what time of the day it was, no matter what the weather,(unless it was raining) I could go out there and collect my thoughts, breathe, enjoy the fresh air, watch the squirrels play, wait for a friend to walk by, listen to the bells of Patt Neff play “that good ol’ Baylor line.” Lately I have had the urge to drive to Waco just to go back to my little reading spot, people might look at me a little funny if they knew I was driving three hours to read on a cement step under a tree in emo park, but it might be worth it.

This was just a short little post, I’ll write more soon…maybe about my job. I think my job usually consists of trying to get little kids to count little colored bears or learn their Spanish alphabet, when something really exciting and blog worthy comes to mind I’ll post it :-)

Martians, William the Kangaroo and Special Ed

This blog is just a compilation of a few random stories from my childhood and a short update on my job.

I am still working at the school and I’m actually enjoying it! This is week four, so that in itself means something. Because of my “assertiveness” or maybe because of my “lack of flexibility” I am no longer “Special Ed TA” I am now, “ESL/Bilingual TA”.  I enjoy it so much more, and I feel like I am getting to help kids and work on my Spanish at the same time.

I think its kind of funny that I was never a star student in elementary school and now I am desperately trying to get these kids to learn and pay attention etc.

The teachers are always swapping stories in the teachers lounge about the boy that never does his homework, or the girl that always loses her work, or the kid that just doesn’t really try. I want to reassure them, “don’t worry, they’ll be fine! I never did my homework, I turned out just fine.” Well, I finally started doing my homework in the 6th grade. I had spent most of my recesses inside that year writing, “I will not lose my spelling homework” and things of that nature, over and over again. That is, until one day while we were making little science workbooks with pictures and facts about sea creatures, which I had once again, not completed, when Mrs.Sanders came over to me and quietly threatened me, “I’m sending either you or Katie to Special Ed. If you don’t start doing your work it’s going to be you.” There was NO way I was going to special ed! That was all it took, from that moment on I was motivated and I learned the importance of grades….maybe not for the right reasons, but it worked.

Being back in an elementary school around little kids has made me remember my years in elementary school. So here are two little stories of my adventures and trials. My mom says I took things very literally and sometimes just didn’t quite get things when I was little.

Growing up in Africa was an adventure in itself, add in a good imagination and being able to believe a lot of things, made for many exciting, adventurous days.

I remember being in kindergarten, well Prep 1, at Isamilo, our elementary school in Tanzania. Every day at recess my friends and I would run outside to what seemed like a giant mountain, next to the dirt soccer field. We would climb up the mountain, my friend Jasmine told us she was a witch, and we believed her. Why wouldn’t my little African friend be a witch? One recess, being led by Jasmine we inched our way across a steep part of the mountain, more like a cliff, when we found a little crack between the rocks, that formed a miniature cave, the home of a baby kangaroo. If I remember correctly he went by the name William.

Every day at recess for weeks, Jasmine the witch, would take us up the mountain and we would visit William, maybe bring him a little piece of a brownie left over from lunch, and peer into his little kangaroo home. We would tell him about our day and he would tell us kangaroo secrets, sometimes to us individually, and sometimes he would tell Jasmine and she would relay the message. I haven’t known any witches since Jasmine, and don’t know of any other miniature kangaroos living in miniature caves on African play grounds. I wonder if there are any Jasmines running around my school here in Dallas and if they have equally exciting adventures. I hope they do!

When I started first grade we moved to the big city of Nairobi. It was kind of a wake up call, I felt like kind of like I was being forced to grow up, even though I was only six. My brother and I started riding the bus, but once again, we were riding the bus to school in east Africa. Our bus stop was across the street from some kind of Somali compound, which was kind of always a mystery to me. Our bus stop was by a fruit stand, a wooden kiosk with lots of little niches, built over a ditch, covered in gunny sacks. It was the perfect place to hide and crawl and climb. I became friends with a little girl at my bus stop, but the older girls that rode on the bus…not so nice. I was terrified to find out that they were Martians. I kind of knew what a Martian was from watching episodes of My favorite Martian on one of our two TV channels. But these Martians were not like My Favorite Martian. I didn’t just have to worry about being abducted by aliens in the morning, because these girls were also in my basket weaving class after school. While the nice Kenyan ladies were teaching us how to braid and weave baskets I was worrying about becoming a pod person and being abducted by aliens.

hmm….I think I’ll say that I just had a really good imagination and there was no correlation between almost being sent to special ed and believing in Martians and miniature kangaroos.