Russian Men

One of the first people Y insisted on introducing me to when I first came to LA was Tony, his barber. This gave me the distinct impression that Y came from a small, close-knit neighborhood not unlike Stars Hollow, and I was quite terrified.

Once I did, however, I quickly understood why Y wanted me to meet Tony. A petite Italian with a thick accent, a shock of brown hair that fell across his forehead, and the owner of the "Modern Barbership," which quite obviously hasn't been updated in a good fifty years, the man was easy to love. He fluttered through the shop, light on his feet, sweeping up shorn hair and brushing the strays off a client's neck. He was also kind and caring, and had an utterly devoted, largely Jewish clientele, families for which he groomed multiple generations.

He always cut Y's hair too short, but the actual haircut was just a byproduct of the real point in visiting Tony: to see an old friend.

I came to understand that while women tend to tell their life stories to their hairdressers, to talk and shmooze straight through their blow-outs, those relationships were as transient as that between a woman and her lipgloss: inseparable, until Lancome comes out with Juicy Tubes. Then she's moved on to the next best thing, with nary so much as a goodbye.

But at a men's barbershop, where little is spoken, and a sense of complete calm paints the atmosphere, tight bonds are formed. And these bonds are not lightly broken.

So when Tony, who must be in his sixties, recently decided he'd had enough twelve-hour days on his feet, and sold his shop -- his legacy -- to a Russian man named Alex, and only came to cut hair 3 days a week, the neighborhood men were understandably heartbroken.

Things wouldn't have been so bad if Alex didn't seemingly have the Worst Personality In History. But he was cold as ice, completely unwilling to customize his service for his clients, and gave everyone the same Russian Step haircut that hasn't been cool since 1991.

My first encounter with him was when Elan was still terrified of haircuts. But he had grown to trust Tony, who let Elan sit on my lap to cut his hair. Yes, we were both covered with itchy snippets by the time he was finished, and we are thankfully past that stage, but it got the job done at a time when it was necessary. We came to the shop one day to find only Alex there. Elan wasn't happy about Tony's absense, but agreed to have his hair cut so long as he could sit on my lap. Alex wouldn't hear of it, and when I informed him that Tony never had a problem accomodating us, he encouraged me to leave. Livid, I spun on my heel and marched out. We came only on Tuesdays and Fridays, when Tony was there, from then on.

But I came to notice that on the days Tony was working, there would be a line of men patiently waiting their turn for him, while Alex sat idly, nobody wanting him near their ears with a scissors in hand. And on the days Tony wasn't there, I'd walk by the shop and find it completely empty, Alex napping or reading a magazine. Yes, he was a generally unpleasant person to be around, and I tried to remind myself of that when I saw him. But depsite my greatest effort, I felt myself softening. I mean, who knew why he was such a grouch? And everyone was talking about how much they disliked him. He was the underdog, and I decided to root for him.

One day, I witnessed him cutting a fellow Russian's hair, and he was chattering away in Russian with the man, animatedly, chuckling and smiling. He was a different man. I realized that he probably was simply not well-versed in American friendliness -- maybe he needed to be taught.

My plan was simple: chip away at Alex's paper mache exterior until it all crumbles and the flesh and blood part of him reveals itself. I started slowly- when I came into the shop, instead of calling "hey Tony!" as per usual, I'd go, "Hey Tony! Hey Alex! How are you guys?" At first, Alex looked like he'd been smacked in the face - he just didn't understand my greeting him. He grunted and nodded in response. But the next time I came in, in addition to greeting him individually, I addressed him directly while chatting with Tony during Elan's haircut. I'd make a comment about the boys, roll my eyes, and look straight at Alex with a smile: "You know how kids are!"

It wasn't easy, and I won't deny there were setbacks. But I was making progress. For example, I noticed Alex watching us like a hawk while Elan helped himself (and everyone else in the shop) to endless cups of water from the cooler while we were waiting our turn, and I knew those looks meant that he didn't approve. But instead of glaring back, I fixed him a huge smile and said something like, "At least he's being quiet, right? And water's healthy!" And Alex gave a confused half-smile, grunted something, and turned back to his magazine. Ah, how sweet the smell of victory.

I kept this up over several haircuts, and eventually Alex's half-smile became full-blown. One day, a few months after I had launched Project A, something happened. I came into the shop, both kids in tow, and even before Tony did, Alex immediately smiled and said hello. Then he did something he had never done before: he SPOKE TO MY CHILDREN. In A NICE VOICE. He yanked lollipops out of a drawer and thrust them at the boys, who bore the familiar bewildered expressions of having been smacked in the face. While Tony, equally pleased, hacked away at Elan's mop, Alex began peppering me with questions about my kids' vaccinations, and which reactions they did or did not have because his grandchildren, twins, had gotten fever from the Hep shot and you know now that he thought about it in general the boy is a little slower than the girl who is really very smart but as he gets older the boy seems to be catching up develpmentally and how old was Elan when he started walking and did I know they get so excited to see him and they called him a nickname for Grandpa in Russian and his daughter was about my age, actually, and...

OH. MY. G-D.

Tony looked as stunned as I felt, though I tried to act like this sudden comeraderie between Alex and I was actually perfectly normal, so as to not scare him off. I had, indeed, uncovered something that was most definitely human, in Alex. Since that day, we've all been fast friends, and I felt that I could handle any Russian men that might grace my future.

As I've mentioned, we have yet to sell our fish tank, though we've had lots of inquiries about it. The most interest we've garnered, however, has come from a man who we've never met, but by the language in his emails and the sound of his name, we've pegged him as most likely Russian. Because he kept trying to bargain down our asking price, and in such a patronizing way, Y, testostorone summoned, refused to sell to him.

But then, nobody else bid. So I begged Y to let me contact the Russian, to sell to him. After all, I figured, I could certainly work my magic again.

Finally, I got Y to agree to letting me email and re-offer the tank to the Russian. I drafted a really nice message, but a week later, he still hasn't written back, and I don't know how to take this. Is he playing mind-games with us, to find out how desperate we are and what minimum price we'd accept? Does he no longer check his email? Is he just not interested, and isn't polite enough to let us know? How do I access the humanity under this paper mache facade?

I'm at a loss about this one, and am as desperate to get rid of the tank as I've ever been. Maybe I should ask Alex?