Looking for Lily

A non-romantic love story with a sad ending, in which Dutch Boy finds himself in a hairy situation, then finds the true one, only to lose her again.

When I was still a little Dutch Boy, going for a haircut used to be an uneventful event. That sounds strange, but the anticipation of going to a hair saloon was so high, that the event itself was always slightly disappointing. As a child it is somewhat excitingly traumatizing that someone cuts off parts of you with a pair of scissors, not terminally wounding or at least hurting you in the process. It's absolutely fascinating. However, hair dressers in the Netherlands are not paid per happy customer, but by the minute. No free coffee, no free hair wash, no massage. Cut, mirror, and bugger off. 25 Euro, thank you very much.

My hair dresser in those days was Michel (pronounce in the French way). Back then I thought he was quite cool, with his leather tool belt full of razor sharp tools (such as razor blades). Thinking back of him now, I have to change my opinion slightly. Michel had a droopy moustache, a velvet sweater, and was constantly fidgeting with his bleached curly perm hairdo. Not with the hair of his customers, but his own hair. He drove a third-hand Camaro, with a three-toned horn, and an air-brushed topless chick on the hood. Michel looked like a German porn star from the seventies.

Little boys become boys, and I moved from my small provincial home town to the big city of Rotterdam for some academic tuning. Let me not dwell on that success too long, but keep the focus on the relevant part. I frequented a total of 3 saloons in Rotterdam. That started with Saloon Pieter. They had student rates. For 10 guilders you could get a fairly decent haircut. What was more important, Pieter's top hair dresser (apart from Pieter himself, yet another German porn star type) was a blond chick that the male part of the university cued up for around the block. She was hot, and she knew it. She was also completely untouchable, eventually driving me away to better opportunities.

Which I found plenty of at the Academy. Yeah, I know, it sounds sophisticated. But sticking to the topic of this story, it's the academy for hair dressers. Great deal, for 5 guilders you place yourself at the risk of a 1^st year student trying to figure out how to avoid cutting off your ear. But it was so worth it: 18-19 year old girls without the slightest hindrance of a brain, interested only in my hair. Dating was never easier, albeit with little intelligent talking. Unfortunately the haircuts were so bad that every once in a while I had to go for restoration at a 'real' saloon. And a 'real' saloon for me, that was at the three old men.

Officially (and aptly) named 'Hair saloon Kralingen', this place was popularly known as 'The Three Old Men'. You have guessed it, the saloon was staffed by 3 old men, one of which was the owner, who had inherited the place from his father, and probably he had it from his fathers father, and so on. The place seemed to have existed since the beginning of days, without having changed at all. It was a bless to be part of that scene. Mind you, this was a men's barber shop. No women were helping or being helped at all. That nicely kept the number of discussion topics to a bare minimum: women, and football.

In this part of Rotterdam they did explicitly not discuss the glorious club from the south side of the river, Feyenoord, or at the most in terms of curses. Also not the second club from the west side in Spangen, the age-old club of Sparta. None of that. For the three old men the one and only club worthwhile talking about, with all its miserable defeats, grave disappointments, near-bankruptcies, and second league grayness for generations, was Excelsior. It bored the hell out of me.

Sometimes they did talk about other things. One of the old ones asked me every time what I did for a living. My answer "Something in computer software" seemed to be of such an unreachable abstract level, that it usually shut him up instantly about that topic. The good thing about this place was that they opened at 7am on weekdays, giving me ample time to get a haircut before joining the slow sliding gray fuming metal snake of traffic jam to the office in Delft, a mere 15 kilometers yet over an hour away.

Oh, memories of the good old days. Getting a haircut was such a trivial part of life yet it gave so much pleasure in all its simplicity. All that changed so abruptly when I moved to the East. Here in Malaysia, getting a hair cut is an important event, yet I dread it every time.

It starts with the smell. The combination of air-conditioned super dry air mixed with chemical hair products does bad things to my stomach. The moment I step into a saloon here, I want to get out already, the nausea setting in immediately. Then comes the front desk. A front desk, the idea of that in a saloon is still hilarious to me.

"Yes, sir, how can I help you?" Can you think of a more rhetorical question than that? We're in a hair saloon for crying out loud. "I would like to have the braised lamb shank Moroccan style and a glass of your house pouring pinot noir with that, please." Instantly, the plastic smile disappears from Barbie's face. This was not handled in her training program, so she quickly switches to defense mode, meaning she will pass me on to someone else. In the blink of an eye, the front desk manager appears. "Yes, sir?"

I decide not to push it any further, because I'm getting sick from the chemical smell already. Time is of essence here, I must get my haircut before throwing up all over Barbie and friends. "A hair cut, please," is my answer, giving her a hot wink. She cordially ignores it, but Barbie doesn't, and she's cutting back in immediately. Great, in this very brief moment I have created a catfight between manager and employee. My stomach is churning into a whirlpool of boiling acid. The manager disappears, fuming, but without a sound.

"Did you make a booking?" asks Barbie. I actually did try that one time. The result was the same as without a booking. They let me simmer in one of those super uncomfortable pvc-upholstered chairs while the girl is helping 3 others first, leaving me flipping through Chinese car magazines dating from before 2000. It makes zero difference. "No", I tell her honestly. She smiles at me in an empathizing way, as if she's foreseeing already a looooong waiting time. Strange, because there's hardly anyone inside.

"Your first time here?" I wonder why she's asking that question. Is there a secret initiation process that I should be aware of in this institute? Just gimme a frigging haircut, lady! I play it safe, by lying "No." She sees right through me, I can tell it from the false smile on her face. I'm on her territory here, and she can smell victory. She corners me with a trick question "Then who's your stylist?" Check mate. "I, I.. but" nothing but stuttering. I am about to throw up on her, the chemical smell by now unbearable. The world starts to spin slowly around me. I can do 2 things now: faint (I don't have to do anything for that, I'm almost there already), or flee (the better option).

Then suddenly a calm voice from behind says "I am". As quick as it came up, the nausea is gone. Barbie's face turns sour. "This way, please", the voice says. I follow behind her. She's a small girl. Her hair is surprisingly normal for a hair stylist. Half long, dark brown. It looks well taken care of, without haven the over-treated look that most people working in a hair saloon carry. I take that as a good sign. She sits me down in a chair with a smile.

A quick sharp order in Chinese, and one of the other (clearly lower in the mysteriously complex hierarchy that exists in hair saloons) girls runs off, and comes back with a cup of tea and a stack of magazines. Another order, this one sounding much more unfriendly. The other girls looks like it physically hurts, and she quickly exchanges the magazines (indeed, the 5 year old GQ issue and more of that stuff) for a brand new issue of Motor Trader. Now we're talking!

"I'm Lily", the girl announces. "I'm Dutch Boy", I reply. "You need a haircut", she observes. It sounds like an accusation. Not to me, but to the person that did my hair the previous time. "Yes", I agree. "And you need a different shampoo", she says. I look her in the face, about to start protesting against the sickly urge of hair stylists to go into a direct selling mode when their customers are at their most vulnerable, tucked in under a plastic sheet, in an uncomfortable position in an uncomfortable chair, under the threat of razor sharp tools. But before I can start my tirade, she says "Trust me". And strangely enough, I do. With those two words the ground rules for our relationship are laid down. She never, ever sells me anything that I do not need, regardless of the commission. And I will never, ever question her when she tells me to buy a product, regardless of how redundant it seems to me. When I'm in her chair, she's in charge. I trust her.

"I'll be right back," she announces, and leaves me alone to sip my tea and flip through the magazine with car classifieds. It's one of my favorite magazines. Thousands of cars in all different classes and price ranges, from a 15 year old Kancil for a thousand ringgit to an almost spanking new DB9 of a cool 1.3 million, it's all in there. And as always, after looking at all that shining second hand steel, it suddenly seems very reasonable to cough up 400,000 ringgit for a 5 year old Porsche. "Don't buy that one." Lily had sneaked up behind me and is looking at me in the mirror. "I know that car; it's not in great condition. The owner had it maintained at a very shoddy workshop, and he's now selling it because the maintenance is growing over his head." I look at her in disbelief. Could this really be? A hair stylist that actually knows her cars?

She tells me that she had always wanted to work in car trading, but her mother doesn't allow her to. But she really knows what she's talking about. Every model from every year she has an opinion on, and she knows where to buy a good version of it. She has a lot of contacts at the higher-end sports cars dealerships. Time is flying by as we talk and talk, and before I know it, she's done already. "How to say thank you in your language?" she asks me. I tell her. She practices it for a few times, until it sounds like "dunking". It's good enough for me. Then she teaches me the only 2 words I know in Mandarin: "Xie Xie."

Back at the front desk she puts a small bottle of shampoo in front of me, to be added to my tab. The hair cut is not expensive, but the total bill makes me gasp for air, and I need to pull out the plastic to cover for it. Lily smiles at me, and I know what that means. Don't argue. Trust me.

Lily has cut my hair over the past 8 years now, and I have enjoyed every minute of it. What's more, she has healed my near-phobic view on hair saloons, barbers, stylists, and the rest of the industry. Oh, let's not forget, she gives a great haircut as well; not completely irrelevant when going to a saloon. She always makes time in her schedule when I call for an appointment (which I now do), and she is actually available when I show up on time. She makes me use hair products that I do not understand, but that simply work for me. And she is one of the most interesting conversation partners that I have ever met in my entire life.

Last week I noticed my hair was getting a bit long again. I don't like that, because it's quite hot when running or cycling. So as usual, I speed-dialed the saloon. Barbie answered the phone as usual. "Oh, hi Dutch Boy! How are you today?" She's quite friendly to me nowadays, probably because I'm also more bearable now as a customer. "Can you book me for a haircut by Lily, please?" Her answer makes my world crumble apart like a sand castle in the monsoon. "Lily is no longer working here." Even Barbie sounds sad. I almost hit a big cement truck in front of me. I pull off the road to process this. The news is blowing me away. I don't know what to say. "Hello, hello?" it comes from the phone. "Where did she go?" I ask, hoping in vain that she just moved to a different branch or to a competitor. "I don't know. Shall I book you with Ivanka instead?" asks Barbie. Ivanka. It sounds awful. I can smell the chemicals again. I'm getting sick. I disconnect the line without a word.

It took a few days to accept the news, and I went through all stages of digestion, from denial to anger to sadness, and bouncing back and forth between them. Eventually I understand and accept it now. Some day I will have to give up my haircut-strike that I am on currently, and smile at an Ivanka. It's ok, I will get used to it. Getting a haircut will never be the same anymore, but such is life.

I do have some unfinished business, though. I need to find Lily. I need to see for myself if she has found what she was always looking for. And there's only one way to do that. To find Lily, I just have to buy the latest issue of Motor Trader. Then visit each and every sports car dealer to find the best possible Porsche in town. When I find it, Lily will be there, as the person selling it to me. We will not bargain about the price. She will just point out the car to me, and I will pay the price, no questions asked. I trust her.

- end -

The Fork

It's going to rain. I can tell, because my knee is itching like crazy. It's a big mess of fresh scars, and extremely sensitive to weather changes. Always a few minutes before Astro shows distortion, I can feel a thunderstorm approaching. Oh well, I guess cut up knees are part of life for an XC rider. No padding, for more freedom of movement. Great. Until you crash…

That day a few weeks back started like any other day. An early wake up call by the most annoying dj the valley has so far had the pleasure of listening to. They want the audience to call and share the most embarrassing moment they had in public because of their parents. I'm surprised so many people are calling. The dj plays yet another Michael Jackson song. Time to get up.

At the first glimpse of light I'm on my bike. It's chilly. The air is still without too much haze and exhaust fumes. "Pagiiii", the Indian butcher shouts when I curve around his chopping block. Even the meat smells less pungent today.

If you're the owner of the burgundy Toyota Unser, my apologies for clipping your side mirror. In my defense, you shouldn't park there. Especially so early in the morning there's plenty of parking in the designated spots.

The nasi lemak girl is setting up her stuff. One stool for her to sit on, one stool for the crate of nasi lemak. Darn, I forgot to bring the one ringgit note I still owe her from the other day. "Pagiiii", I shout at her, hoping that she has forgotten. Her look says otherwise. "Tomorrow, I promise", I promise her. She smiles.

I climb the hill into Bukit Kiara park. Smoothly, I might add. I pass a lady on her morning walk. One of her shoes is squeaking like a lobster in boiling water. Really loud. That must irritate the hell out of her. My bicycle is exceptionally quiet today. Sometimes she (the bike, I don't know about the lady) just sounds more grinding. Not today. Smooth all the way.

Another rider is waiting at the gazebo for the light to be strong enough to go into the jungle. We know each other. "W'sup", he says. I don't know his name. He doesn't know my name. We don't care. Sometimes we ride together. When we meet, we ride. Life is not that complicated. He once told me he works at a photo shop. I was surprised at the crappiness of his camera. We never talked about work after that. It's not necessary. We have zero in common, except a shared passion for riding. At which we both suck. That creates a strange bond.

"How's the fork holding up", he asks, giving polite follow-up to one of my earlier complaints when I had a bad day and needed to blame my bicycle. I shrug. Then I notice he upgraded his. "Nice one. Vanilla." It must have cost him a frigging bomb. I like that. The guy sets his priorities right. "I'm jealous", I say. And I mean it, in a nice way. He nods.

He asks "2K?" It's my favorite trail. I adjust the damping of my fork. There's actually nothing wrong with it. I'm used to it. "Sure", I say, and lead the way into the dark jungle. Leading has its pro's and con's. The good thing is that you determine the pace. The bad thing is, that being the first in the jungle means you're the one sweeping up all the fresh cobwebs, including its arachnid inhabitants. It sticks to your face, and stings in your eyes.

The first part has a lot of rooty staircases. It's nice, because I know this trail inside out. We bomb down the steps. After a while it goes steeply up for a few meters. A big cobweb sticks to my helmet, face, nose, ears, mouth, and eyes. I try to spit it away. It partially blinds me. That's how I misjudge the next drop. With watery eyes in the dark woods, I can only see a blur. But I feel my front wheel drop much sooner and much deeper than I expected.

I crash hard. My left side hits the steep hill side. My head hits a tree and I ricochet off it. The helmet does its job. My knee hits the next tree. No protection there. It hurts so bad. I try to get up. "Click", says my knee cap. "U ok?" my friend asks me. "I'm good", I say and inspect my bike. Not a scratch on it of course. "U shud upgrade ur fork", he says. "Yeah, it's rubbish", is my answer. I splash some water on my knee to get rid of the mud. It's bleeding. "Blood is good", says the dude, "it disinfects." "Thanks, doctor Oz", I say, "let's go." I lead again.

We ride hard and concentrated the rest of the trail. When we come out it's completely light. "U look like shit", my fellow rider says. Is that his professional opinion as a photographer? Other people also look worried when they see me. My jersey is shredded. And my knee hurts like crazy. Blood is dripping down my leg. I decide to call it a day and go for breakfast. "See ya", is the farewell as I peddle the short climb up the hill to exit the park.

Back home I lick my wounds and have my breakfast in the kitchen. I surf eBay and find dozens of knee and elbow protectors. They're cheap. Free shipping. But I'm not a downhill rider. I decide to reward myself with a new shirt. Much nicer.

- end -