The cool thing about Chinatown is it doesn’t matter where you are, Chinatown is the same, it’s Chinatown the world over, there’s something wonderful and comforting about that. The ladies that work in Chinatown shops are also rampantly comparable, often they are the wives of the owners, hardworking, middle-aged, and indefatigable. When you enter their shops, they thrust shit at you and trumpet the quality and goodness of their wares with a greatly casual paradoxical disinterest. They barely even make eye contact as they mumble declarations along lines of, “You like. You want. You buy. Very nice. Special for you,” straight ahead into the air. It doesn’t matter what the shit is, or what shit you need, or what shit you might be interested in, to these Chinatown shopwomen, it’s all the same. These excellent ladies put little effort into their statements and encouragements toward purchase, but they always engage, however aimless and inattentive the engagement.
One blustery wintry day, we were in some Chinatown shop looking for a hat for my cold head. It was so terribly cold that day, I was desperate to buy anything warm enough and just put it on, concerns like fashion or cost took a back seat entirely. I considered my options for no more than a second, before the Chinatown shoplady thrust some headpiece at me and said, “You like. You want. Very good hat. I have best hats. Good hat. Special for you. You like. You buy. Perfect hat.” I put the hat on and it was so huge it slipped down over my face and my whole head. I could see through the large roomy fabric the shopwoman gaze briefly at me. With elaborate disregard, she shrugged her shoulders, looked dismissively into the horizon, made a “Hhhmyh” sound and declared, “Small head.” The Chinatown shoplady dexterously washed her hands of the whole affair. The unresolvable freak of nature that was my supposed too tiny head had certainly nothing at all to do with her wonderful hats.
“Small head,” she said again.
“Big hat,” I countered, peeved.
The Chinatown shoplady made another “Hhhmyh” sound and forged on with her dispassionate horizon gaze. She didn’t bother to accompany the “Hhhmyh” sound with a second shoulder shrug.
Dylan and I exited the shop without purchasing a hat. I had to suffer the winter cold and go it alone, my “small head” shrinking even further away and inward. Every once in a while and ever since, Dylan and I sometimes look at each other in unison without planning it, make a “Hhhmyh” sound and declare, “Small head.” Then we grin and chuckle or we laugh a lot. We do a similar thing with the word “vast,” but “vast” is a whole other story. Let me tell you though, it’s these small shared history moments and inside jokes that keep a love going and make a thing real and strong.
Hhhmyh. Small head.
