Hairdressers in the USA

Michael And here's another story that's so bizarre it's hard to believe: Anyone who has ever been to America knows that it's very difficult to find a hairdresser who is actually capable of cutting hair. In America, there is no direct "craft," anyone can call themselves a hairdresser if they feel like it. Not like in Munich, where on Friedenheimer Straße a master of his craft wielded the scissors: Master "Pablo" at "Design in Hair" -- probably unmatched in the whole world -- yes, world! I had only been in San Francisco for a few weeks when my head was craving a haircut, and I unsuspectingly went into a random hair salon on 24th Street around the corner from us. After the first 10 seconds in the chair, it became clear to me that the guy cutting my hair had no idea what he was doing. It took me almost half a year of disappointments, wandering from salon to salon, until I finally, by chance, found a gentleman in the Italian quarter of San Francisco who mastered the art of haircutting. Since I was working in the Italian quarter (called North Beach) at the time, it was very convenient; I would just go for a quick haircut during my lunch break. Then I suddenly worked in San Mateo and finally in Mountain View, but I still wanted to enjoy a good haircut -- so every six weeks on Saturdays, I drove half an hour across the city to North Beach to have my hair skillfully trimmed there. But, oh dear -- one Saturday, there was a sign in the shop informing that the barber was working at a place called "SF Hairport" over the weekend. Grumbling, I drove home.

Now it happened that on the following Sunday, we were lingering at the San Francisco airport because the Schünkes, Angelika's parents, were about to board their return flight home after a visit. I was strolling past one of those airport hair salons, happened to glance inside--and couldn't believe it: there sat my hairdresser from North Beach! Naturally, I rushed into the shop immediately, as we have gotten to know each other quite well by now. We always have lively conversations about the situation in the neighborhoods of North Beach, Mission (where the hairdresser is from), and the stock market. Once, while cutting my hair, the hairdresser even placed an order with his stockbroker over the phone! So, it happened at the airport hair salon that I overheard a gentleman from Germany sitting in the barber's chair, and of course, it was amusing. The three of us had an animated conversation in English about everything under the sun. Then another gentleman came through the door and asked something. Although he tried hard to speak American, it took less than a split second to identify him as German too--and on a whim, I made jokes and asked if he also, etc. ... and what did the man say? "Yes." And he disappeared through the door outside. For years, I have kept silent! Enough is enough! I can't take it anymore! I have to speak: Dear fellow Germans! Don't always be so grumpy! You are--like the weather back home. Rain, rain, rain. Do you never have fun? Never in a good mood? Just feel like spreading your humor for no particular reason? Being a "dancing star" in the sense of Nietzsche? Oh, it will be difficult to return to Germany...