springtime for Postie and the R.O.K.

That was a bad reference to Springtime for Hitler, but it'll have to do. I couldn't think of anything else.

Technically it's been spring for a while now, but only today has it really felt like it. At first, the weather refused to warm up. The temperature remained stubbornly low, like a tired donkey. We even had a few freak snowstorms. Then it warmed up too quickly. I was subjected to several hazy, warm, muggy days in the low 80s, which nearly killed me. Heat and humidity do not mix. They are my meteorological Kryptonite, sucking all the energy and courage out of me, and I become a whiny, groveling, short-tempered insect.

But today...oh. Today is just gorgeous.

As you can see, the trees are leafing out, the skies are blue, the clouds are wisps of cotton, the haze is gone, and it's just a beautiful frickin' day. You can't tell from the picture, but the temperature is in the 60s (perfect for me) and there's a lively breeze that carries all the excess heat away from your body and leaves you sunny and magnanimous in its wake.

It's enough to make me forget how tough this week has been. It turns out that my predictions were...premature. Doing the presentation classes has been all right, don't get me wrong. It's my regular classes that have been nightmarish. Somehow sensing that they would be inundated with foreigners this week, and the Korean teachers would be powerless to discipline them, my elementary students have gone off the high side. They're nuts. Uncontrollable. Ungovernable. Loud. Noisy. Crazy. Rambunctious. Related adjectives and synonyms.

Moreover, my guess that I would have the period between 6:15 and 10:00 (quitting time) all to myself was a load of dingo's kidneys. The management cooked up an intriguing scheme to keep the foreign teachers busy during their down-time. We're calling our elementary students at home and chatting with them. Testing their reading comprehension. Discussing the stories we've read in class. Shooting the breeze. We talk to each student for ten minutes and then spend a few minutes uploading comments on their performance to the academy's website. This isn't so bad, but I have to do this fourteen times in a row on Wednesday and Friday. It's nothing the Korean teachers don't do every day—they have to make regular progress reports to the parents—but for a phone virgin like me, it's exhausting. I have a new respect for the Korean teachers now. They have to do this during the regular school year. Cripes.

Long story short, I've been more exhausted at the end of the day this week than I have during at any previous time.

No matter. Today's weather has made me forget it. I decided to take advantage of this auspicious gift from Mother Nature (it was as if she gift-wrapped it personally for me!). I went down to Homeplus and did some shopping. Homeplus, as I may have explained before, is a big outlet store chain, similar to Wal-Mart or K-Mart, only cleaner, more respectable, with more smartly-dressed greeters. Miss H is arriving on—

HOLY SMOKE!!!

I forgot to tell you!

Miss H is coming to Korea.

No, really! She is! Finally!

I bought her a ticket on Korean Air, and she'll be here on Monday. To say I'm excited would be the understatement of the century. She'll live with me for a few weeks and send out some lines, and then hopefully we'll get her a job at one of the English academies in my building. And there we'll be, living and working in South Korea. Together at last.

But first I have to get my bachelor pad cleaned up. I grabbed some cleaning supplies at Homeplus, like a hand vacuum and drain cleaner and whatnot. They really do have every convenience here. I wonder what I'd do for drain cleaner if I was living in Tanzania. Probably wouldn't need it. I'll have to try living in Tanzania sometime and see.

But before I went to Homeplus, I had something else I needed to do. I hadn't gotten my hair cut in three months (sound familiar?). I asked around at work and was told to find the Juno Hair Salon, on the other side of Homeplus from my apartment building. They spoke some English and it was a real class establishment. I located it without too much trouble, and walked in. The place was ritzy. Mirrored walls, glass shelves stocked with notions and fragrances, and (get this) a wine-and-cordial bar for thirsty customers. Class establishment, indeed. I was gestured to a cushioned bench and waited for 10 minutes while the staff finished a hasty brunch. Then I was ushered to a private locker room where I ensconced my coat and backpack. I climbed into a slinky sort of robe-thingy, which belted at the wast. A big soft bib was laid over that. Then, in a low-lit room with lots of strip lighting (which felt more like a private spa room at the Luxor in Las Vegas than a hair salon in Bucheon), I received a shampooing. Indeed, the whole affair was more like a spa treatment than a haircut. The woman's hands gently rendered my windblown hair clean and malleable. 

Then I sat in the chair, and the stylist put a large piece of cloth over me, the customary hair shield. (That's three anti-hair layers I'm wearing now, in case you weren't been counting.) She showed me pictures of hairstyles on her iPad. I selected the likeliest one, and she went to work. She was efficient, she was gentle, and she was talented. Her English wasn't the best, and my Korean even poorer, but nonetheless we managed something like a conversation. I traded pleasantries with her about my job and my country of origin while I gazed out the window at the sunlit streets and the majestic high-rise apartments. I tried not to stare at what she was doing. I wanted to make sure she gave me the hairstyle I wanted, not the slicked-back monstrosity that my old Korean barber wreaked on me. But she performed brilliantly. I've never been so satisfied with a haircut, and that's no exaggeration.

I was then taken in hand by the same shampooist (that's now a word, courtesy of the Postman), back to the strip-lit room. There I received a second shampooing-slash-head massage. And when I say "head massage" I mean that I thought my skull would pop open. This Korean woman had the face of a young girl, and was barely over five feet, with an alarmingly skinny figure. But she had the grip of a boa constrictor and fingers like iron bands. She worked all the pressure points and penetrated deep into the muscles of my jaw and neck. I was limp spaghetti in her hands. I gave her repeated compliments, hoping she wasn't a North Korean agent plotting to snap my spine. Don't get me wrong. The massage was enjoyable in its own unique way, even if I felt like a stubborn egg she was trying to crack open. Even now, as I flex my neck and work my jaw, there is no stiffness. And my scalp feels ready to jump off my head and take wing. Can't put a price on that. It was simply a new experience for me, the foreignness and novelty of which I reflected on even as my head was being molded like clay.

Then it was back in the chair for a quick blow-dry and styling. I politely declined the waxes and sprays. I never put anything in my hair the wind couldn't blow out of it. The stylist combed it down, straightening a few stubborn cowlicks, and set me on my way, twenty-five grand poorer. I received an enthusiastic farewell at the door from my stylist and the gorilla-fisted shampoo girl, plus a free lollipop for my trouble. I was charmed by both gestures. Ultimately, I would recommend Juno Salon to anyone in need of a new hairstyle...who also likes to have their stress wrenched away at finger-point.

And now I'm back in my apartment, telling you about it. With the hour I have left before class, I shall clean the bathroom. Guests are coming for movie night and I don't want them to get the screaming horrors upon entering that sacred room. Then I have four classes (three regular, one presentation) and about six or seven phone calls to make. Shouldn't be too bad. Friday comes with three classes and twelve phone calls, and then the blessed freedom of the weekend, which shall be spent cleaning and tidying in preparation for Miss H's arrival. I shall also explore Gwangjang Market with Andy, if there's time.

On Monday...Miss H arrives.

Heaven ensues.