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My mind jogged back to the cacophony of voices, the way all my senses lit on entering. What I felt—what the women in my family felt—when we opened those salon doors was hope. They were investing in themselves for a few hours, away from the demands of jobs, childrearing, and running households crowded with generations.
How I Found Community and Care in Vietnamese Hair Salons
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They have a fixed price of 400k (no tips requested) for everyone. The blow job is performed upstairs in semi-private cubicles. What I mean by that is that you can hear the other ladies sucking (no joke, it’s certainly not a dry session) and moaning while servicing the other customers.
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Creating effortless styles
I watched women shooing children out from underfoot, sometimes bribing them with individually wrapped fruit gummies. They would trade gossip and recipes, sometimes leaving out a crucial secret ingredient, because generosity knows some bounds. They complained about bosses, celebrated their kids' acceptance into elite colleges, and sometimes bemoaned husbands who did not treat them as the queens they were. When discussing their troubles, they hissed, "This would never happen in Vietnam."
Nguyen Phi Khanh Street
But it was also an opportunity to be still and served for once. They could have gone to the local Supercuts and gotten a trim for a fraction of the price and hassle, but they chose to make that drive every few months anyway. Sometimes we will travel far to find community, even if the promise is fleeting. So when I was allowed to perm my hair at the Vietnamese salon at the age of nine, I could not sleep the night before out of excitement. When we arrived, the stylist whisked me into a silver chair with a plastic cover that smacked against my thighs every time I moved and draped me with a thin plastic apron. It was unbearably hot that day, but I bit down any complaints, grateful to have this wedge into adulthood.
It was dyed every shade (from mahogany to violet), cut in bangs, shortened to pixie-length, waved, and straightened. I visited many stylists over the years, some of which were one-time affairs, while others became longer relationships that fizzled when I moved to another city. We drove an hour to St. Petersburg, where there was a large Vietnamese American population. While the women in my family waited for their turn in the salon chairs, I sat nearby with a lychee-flavored soda bought from the grocery next door.
As a child, my grandmother usually cut my hair on a kitchen chair in the backyard, never intending to waste money on a kid's cut. So, for years, I was a spectator at the Vietnamese salons. She tagged along when my six-year-old daughter got her hair cut to her shoulders, oohing and ahhing over the change in her baby face, suddenly lengthened and shaped by the new style.
She stood, admiring herself with the hand mirror I brought out. Around us, driven by the gust of wind, hair clippings scattered. They edged past our ankles, into the rocky path near the patio, up around the low-hung birdhouse crammed with twigs, and beyond the fence separating us from the outside world.
Nguyen Phi Khanh Street
Instead, a teacher gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Too short, huh? It'll grow out, honey." She mistook my eagerness for shame, and somewhere along the way, I accepted that shame and clipped it to my experience of hair. The only disadvantage at Benny is that you cannot choose a particular girl – you get assigned to whatever lady comes next in line. Most of them are in their mid twenties to early thirties, and some really cute as well. If you prefer to pick your girl, you should go to the salons of the next section. Then, when we were all pleased, I brushed the strands from my mom's shirt.
MY GO TO SALON, hands down the best people and service I have ever been too!
Not very far from Benny is Nguyen Phi Khanh Street, which has several BJ salons such as Hoang Duc, Thien Phu and many more. You walk into such a salon, and since they only have one service on offer, you don’t even have to say anything. There’s usually a Vietnamese guy or older woman sitting at a desk in the lobby, and upon your entry he will raise his hand and direct you to the stairs to the upper floor. He will also press a bell button somewhere to let the staff know they’ve got a new customer (in some of the older places they’d just shout something in Vietnamese).
You can even somewhat see what’s going on in your neighbor cubicle through the milky glass windows. This year, I returned to my hair salon for the first time since November 2019. The decor was completely revamped, with a grunge-retro vibe that felt slightly too cool for me. My stylist—a friendly, shag-haired redhead who I've seen off-and-on since my grad school days—peered at my ends. She's gracious, but I wondered if she noticed the wreckage I'd left after three years of at-home cuts. During the pandemic, I told myself, "It's just hair. It'll grow back." But of course, it wasn't just hair at all.
It's limp and never seems to gather enough shape around my round face, unless I take an hour or more to wrestle it into waves. I once asked my friend, a beautiful Korean American woman with an effortless hairstyle she hadn't changed since high school, what her secret was. She said, slowly and patiently, "Well, you find an Asian hair stylist, of course."
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