Lucky

I've been trying to get my hair cut for the past two weeks, but Ali, my hair cutter, always seems to have a 3 hour wait in the chair, no matter what time I tell him I want to arrive. So after an impromptu dinner with Francoise on this blustery and cold day, where the tail end of the nor'easter whipped through the city, I knew I'd be able to finally get in there.

I didn't realize that the shop closed at 8pm, and I showed up at a quarter to eight. Ali was doing the finishing touches on a man's buzz cut, and said that he'd take me anyway, despite the hour. The other barbers were cleaning their stations, covering their scissors and combs, and they began to filter out one by one. Ali twisted my hair up into coils to separate out the layers of hair to trim them neatly. "I've always told you," he said, "you're lucky. I had another woman come in here and ask if I could take her, but I said no. When you come in, I said, oh, it's you. I'll take you. See? Lucky." I remembered the time that Ali looked at my hands a few years back and said that I was lucky. "Ali," I said, "is it because of this?" I said, pointing to a birthmark in the center of my right hand, which a Korean woman once told me was very lucky.

"No!" he barked, and turned my palms over, sprayed them with water from the water bottle he usually uses on scalps and looked at the lines. "This is why you are lucky," he declared as he drew his finger across a deep line on my right hand. This line has always troubled me, as it's a combination of a head and heart line that is perfectly straight across my palm. Most people have three lines on their palms, I only have two. I have always thought that this means something quite the opposite of lucky. But Ali had a different story: "This means you have the energy, and you are covered. This means that you have the force, you always have the force. You have...the puissance."

Ali has said this to me before--always using the word puissance. "In my country," he explained, "in Morocco, there are the people like you, the lucky ones. The ones who could find treasure and make the gold rise up from the ground. They would cut themselves across the palm, right where your line is, and make the blood flow to the ground. That's how they could find it. You have this. You have the force. You are covered."

Now you have to understand, that not everything that Ali says makes sense. I usually only understand every third word, and often don't understand when he's asking something simple like which side of my head I like to part my hair. But he was very insistent. "Lucky," he kept saying.

I stopped talking to Ali and took time to think about what he was saying. A few minutes later, I realized that there was no one else in the cavernous shop, and we both became aware of the silence. Ali went over to the radio and flipped it on. "Just the Way You Are" by Bruno Mars began to play. As soon as the song finished he shut the radio to blow dry my hair. He handed me his iPod Touch and dialed up videos on Youtube of different instances of snowstorms in Morocco, and the fun that snowboarders had visiting the snow in North Africa. It took him a full hour to wash, cut and dry my hair.

When he finished he looked at me and said, "Yes. Lucky and beautiful."

Needless to say, I gave him an excellent tip.

Serendipity Soup

My friend Dana has told me many times that one of the things she loves most about me is how excited I get by the very small delights that I notice on the street. "Look!" I'll say. "Look at that sunset! That smiling child! The stitching on that coat!" She's said that I can get excited by the angle of light hitting a building and live of that high for hours. I felt kind of sheepish when she first pointed my sincere exuberance at these small things, but in the end, I can't argue. I really do get ridiculously happy by little pretties.

Case in point: I was supposed to deposit a check at the bank on my lunch hour. I left before the noontime rush, and I arrived triumphant at the bank to realize that I had left the check on my desk at work. Needing comfort for my stupidity, I walked down the street I was on towards 9th avenue to get some soup.

Well.

I didn't realize I was on 52nd Street, and the wonderful Totto Ramen was on my route. I've tried to go to this place many times, and the line for ramen lovers was always spilling out onto the street. In fact, I had attempted to introduce a friend to the hot deliciousness and chewy noodles yesterday, but the crowd was too thick, so we had to leave it be. But there I was, at 12:30 no less, peeking in the window to find plenty of open seats at the bar. (The restaurant probably seats about 20.) I seized my lunchtime prize and sat down to order.

Now, you have to understand, I usually hate eating alone in restaurants. I will gladly get takeout and eat the food a bit cold and a bit stale just so I can eat it without being surrounded by others or having to say "Table for one." But Totto Ramen doesn't do takeout, so the only way to eat it is right then and there. I ordered the Vegetarian Ramen, and it was amazing watching the men behind the bar put it together. It was as though they were doing some kind of Japanese pas de deux. One would add the broth, one would boil the handmade noodles. One would add a red pepper strip and then cross it with a yellow strip. One would shake out the noodles, ONE-TWO-THREE times to get all the boiling liquid off before adding it to the bowl. One lovingly tossed three asparagus spears into the broth, and the other added a scoop of onions, topped by slices of avocado. One placed in the bean sprouts and the other fitted a lime to the side of the bowl. I was utterly mesmerized by their teamwork, and how quickly and beautifully the soup came into being. You can see my soup maker here. And oh the teamwork, here.

Maybe it was because I was hungry, or because I was so excited to get a seat, but the soup was nothing short of divine. Every time I brought a noodle or a slurp of soup up to my lips, I was greeted with rich, layered smell and every texture created a unique experience. Perhaps it was because I was alone that I had no conversation to divide my attention, and all of my senses were engaged by the soup. And because I was alone, I never had to open my mouth for any reason other than eating more wonderful soup, so I didn't have to worry if there was noodle bits in my braces. I just didn't care, and it just didn't matter.

I lingered over my last bites, watching the men behind the counter fulfill orders for others who had come in--beefy men who opted for extra noodles and extra spice. I watched the soup maker take out a hand-held blow torch and with a large, blue flame "cook" the gorgeous cuts of meat until they had a fine, crispy sheen. I wish I had remembered to take a picture of this, but I was too mesmerized by it to even think twice.

So Dana, if you're reading. Soup! Look at the artistry to the soup! And the blowtorch! Oh my, the blowtorch! I've been quietly giddy all day!

Busy, Busy, Busy

October was an insane month, workwise. Was working trade shows most weekends and there never seemed to be a moment to rest. When I had downtime, sitting on my couch, watching Seinfeld reruns was pretty darn close to heaven.

At the last trade show, on the very last day, at the very last moment of the show, there was a lovely woman that came by our booth. "How long have you had your braces?" she asked. I was a bit taken aback, because it's rare for anyone to ask me about them point blank--especially strangers. And though I find it surprising, my curiosity is piqued by why they would ask.

"14 months," I told her. She smiled broadly and said, "I just got mine off." I looked at her, less pleadingly than I might have a few months ago and said, "Tell me it's worth it!"

"It is," she said, "oh, it is." She then proceeded to tell me a story of bone implants, tooth implants, three years in braces and Invisalign for the rest of her life. But she never lost her smiling demeanor and reiterated over and over how worth it the process was. But she didn't need to tell me. Her wide, sincere, beautiful smile was all the proof I needed.