Hairdryer Noise in the Kitchen

Yeah, I remember the flight. It was… long. United Airlines. Changed planes in Honolulu, then to San Francisco, then Sacramento. My ears were popping the whole way down. I think I had a bit of a headache by the time we landed in SFO. That was October 2002. I was 24, just turned. I remember it because my birthday is in September, and it was a whole new year for me, you know? A fresh start, or so I thought.

We landed on a Wednesday, I think. Or maybe a Thursday. I don’t remember the exact day anymore, but it was just after noon. Hot. Not like Fiji hot, but dry hot. A different kind of heat. My wife, Leela, she was with me. We had been married for two years. Our family, my family, they had helped us with the tickets. It was a lot of money. My father, he sold a small piece of land he owned just outside Lautoka, near Natabua, to pay for our visas and the flights. It was all for a new life, a safer life.

See, in Fiji, things started getting rough for us, for Hindus. After the coup in 2000, it just… got worse. Our temple, the one near our home, it was vandalized a few times. Small things at first, painted slogans. Then bigger things. Rocks through windows. People started talking. Not just talking, but doing. My father, he had a small shop. People would come in, sometimes they wouldn't even say anything, just look at him, at his prayer beads, and leave. It was a pressure you could feel, a weight. You tried to ignore it, but it was there, always. My younger brother, he got into a fight at school. Called him a kafir. They blamed us, you know? For everything. For the economy, for the politics. It was always us.

My father, he’s a smart man. He saw the writing on the wall. He said, “Anish, this is not good for your future. Not for a young man like you, with a skill.” I was a hairdresser, you see. I learned it from my uncle, who had a small salon in Nadi. He taught me everything. Cuts, colors, perms. Back then, perms were still a big thing for some women. I was good at it. Had a steady clientele, mostly Indian women, but some Fijian women too, even a few tourists when they came through. I had dreams of opening my own place, maybe even a chain, in Lautoka.

But the atmosphere… it crushed those dreams. I had this one customer, Mrs. Devi, she always came in for a trim and a set. She had beautiful long hair. One day, she came in, her eyes red. Her son, he was beaten up coming home from university. For no reason, just because he was Hindu. That was it for me. I told Leela, “We have to go.” She agreed. She was scared too. She wanted to have children, and she didn’t want them growing up in that kind of fear. So, we started the process. It took almost two years, the paperwork, the interviews. That’s why we arrived in 2002. It felt like forever.

When we got to Sacramento, we stayed with my uncle's cousin’s son. His name was Raj. He lived in South Sacramento, near Florin Road. Small house, but he was generous. Let us stay in his spare room. It was tight, but we were grateful. Raj worked at a 7-Eleven, night shift mostly. He helped us get our Social Security cards, bank accounts. That was the first thing. Without that, you can’t do anything.

Then came the job hunt. That was… humbling. I thought, I’m a good hairdresser, I have a skill. I’ll find work. I went to all the salons in the area. JCPenney salons, Supercuts, independent places. Nobody would hire me. “Do you have a California license?” they’d ask. “No, I have my Fiji license.” They’d shake their heads. “Sorry, can’t hire you without a California license.”

I didn’t know it was that strict. In Fiji, it’s not like that. You learn, you’re good, you work. Here, you need a piece of paper. So, I looked into it. Cosmetology school. It was expensive, like $15,000 for the program, and it took over a year. I didn’t have that kind of money. Leela found work first. She got a job at a hotel, cleaning rooms, near the airport. Got paid minimum wage, maybe $7.00 an hour back then. It was hard work. She’d come home exhausted.

I couldn’t just sit around. I took what I could get. I found a job at a car wash, power washing cars. It paid cash, under the table. $8.00 an hour, sometimes more if I did extra hours. It was hard on my hands, all the chemicals. My hands were always chapped and red. Then I got a job as a busboy at a small Indian restaurant on Howe Avenue. The owner, Mr. Singh, he was from Punjab. He liked me. He paid me maybe $9.00 an hour. It was better than the car wash, at least I was inside. But it wasn’t what I came here for.

Leela and I, we started fighting more. Small things at first. About money. About the future. She wanted a house, a baby. I wanted to give her those things, but I felt like I was failing. I missed my family. I missed the smell of the ocean. It was all so different. We moved out of Raj’s house after six months, found a small one-bedroom apartment near Folsom Boulevard. Rent was $650 a month, plus utilities. It ate up most of our money. We had to be so careful with every dollar.

I tried to study for the cosmetology exam, but it was hard. Working all day, then coming home, exhausted. I had bought the textbooks from a used bookstore, for cheap. But the theory, it was a lot. Different chemicals, different techniques. My English was good, but the technical terms were still a struggle. I didn’t have time for a full-time school program.

Then, one day, I was talking to a regular at the restaurant, an old Indian lady. She was complaining about her hair, how her regular stylist retired. I told her I was a hairdresser. She looked at me, a bit surprised. I told her my story, about Fiji, about the license. She said, “Can you cut hair?” I said, “Yes, I can.” She said, “Why don’t you cut mine?”

So, she came to our apartment a few days later. I set up a chair in the kitchen. Leela was at work. I used our kitchen sink to wash her hair. I did a simple cut, a trim. She was so happy. She paid me $20 cash. And she told her friends. That’s how it started. Word of mouth. From our kitchen.

Soon, I had a few ladies coming in regularly. Mostly older Indian women, who preferred a male stylist, or someone who understood their hair type, their styles. Many didn’t drive, or didn’t like going to big salons where they felt out of place. I charged less than a proper salon, maybe $25 for a cut, $40 for a cut and color. I bought some professional products, a good pair of shears, a proper hairdryer. It was all cash, still under the table. I still worked at the restaurant, but I’d schedule my hair appointments for my days off, or after my shift.

It grew. Slowly, but it grew. I bought a small, portable shampoo bowl that connected to the kitchen faucet. It made things easier. I had a little book where I wrote down appointments, names, what I did to their hair. My hands started to feel better, less chapped from the car wash. I was doing what I loved again. The sound of the hairdryer, the smell of conditioner, it was comforting.

But the marriage… it wasn’t getting better. Leela, she wanted more stability. She saw the cash work as risky. She wanted me to get a proper job, with benefits, a 401k. She didn’t understand the drive I had, the passion for my work. She saw it as just a temporary thing, a way to make extra money. I saw it as my future. We just… drifted apart. She met someone at her hotel job, another immigrant, but he had a stable job as a security guard. He had a green card, a car. He was what she wanted.

We got divorced in 2005. It was amicable, mostly. We just wanted different things. No kids, so that made it simpler. It was painful, though. To come all this way, to leave everything behind, only for this part of the journey to end. But I understood. She deserved what she wanted, and I couldn't give it to her then. I was still fighting, still building.

After the divorce, I moved to a slightly bigger apartment, still small, but with a bit more space for my growing home salon. I finally got my California cosmetology license in 2007. It took me a long time to save for the school, and then the exam. I went to a night school, three nights a week, for a year and a half. It was exhausting. I’d work all day at the restaurant, then go to school, come home at 10 PM, then wake up early for my hair clients. But it was worth it. That license, it felt like gold. It was proof. Proof that I belonged, professionally, here.

With the license, I started renting a chair at a small salon in Roseville. It was a step up. I kept some of my kitchen clients, but I could also take walk-ins at the salon. I learned how to deal with different hair textures, different styles. Americans, African Americans, Latinas. It was a whole new world of hair. I loved it. I charged more now, maybe $35 for a cut, $65 for a color. I was making good money. I bought my first car, a used Honda Civic, in cash.

In 2010, I opened my own salon. Just a small place, two chairs, near the Folsom Boulevard again. Called it ‘Anish’s Styles’. I paid a deposit, bought some new equipment. It was scary. A lot of money, a lot of risk. But I had my license, I had my experience, I had a loyal clientele. I put in long hours, six days a week, sometimes seven. It was hard work, but it was *my* work. My own business.

Now, it’s 2024. My salon, ‘Anish’s Styles and Spa’, it has five chairs, two massage rooms, and a nail station. I employ three other stylists, a massage therapist, and a nail tech. They are good people. Some are immigrants themselves, from different countries. We speak a mix of languages sometimes. It’s busy. We are fully booked most days. I finally bought a house, not a big one, but my own. In Elk Grove. Small garden in the back. Planted some curry leaves, some chili plants. It reminds me a little of home.

Do I miss Fiji? Yes, sometimes. The smell of the rain, the sound of the frogs at night, the easy pace of life. But not the fear. Never the fear. My parents are still there, they are older now. My brother, he moved to New Zealand. We talk on the phone every Sunday. They are proud of me, I think. They tell me I made the right choice. Maybe I did. It was hard, very hard. But I built something. From a kitchen sink, you know? Just a kitchen sink and a pair of shears. I never thought I would be here. Never. The hardest part was always the money, always figuring out how to make ends meet. And the loneliness, especially after Leela left. But you just keep going. What else can you do? You just keep putting one foot in front of the other. And you cut hair. That’s what I do.