On Saturday my mom woke me up bright and early. She sat down on my bed with a pair of scissors in one hand and a bowl in the other.
“Time for a haircut, Mia!”
I groaned. “Does it have to be today?”
“C’mon, you want to look extra good when we go out with all your dad’s friends tonight, don’t you?”
I glanced hesitantly at the bowl. At the start of every school year, my parents would put a bowl over my head and cut the hair around it. They considered this to be basically the same as a professional haircut. I considered it the same as getting sheared—I always came out looking like an alpaca, with bits of hair sticking out all over the place.
“Please, this year, can I go to a real barber?” I sat up and begged.
Mom looked all offended. “I am a real barber,” she insisted, snipping the air with her scissors as if to demonstrate.
My dad walked in, nodding. “Going to a real barber is too wasteful,” he said. He got his own bowl haircut every other month. “And besides, it’ll only take ten minutes.”
I walked over to the mirror and gazed at my head of wild, untamed hair. Sure, it looked a bit like a mop, but did she have to chop it all off and make me look like a mushroom again?
“Can we just skip this year?” I asked.
My mom shook her head. “Long hair wastes shampoo,” she said.
“I’ll only wash my roots! And I’ll keep it up in a ponytail, so it doesn’t get in my face,” I promised.
My mom put a finger to her chin and studied my face as though it were a flower arrangement. Finally, she sighed.
“Fine, we’ll just do the bangs.”
YES!
I took the bowl from her and put it over my forehead. “Just my bangs!”
As my mom put her scissors to my hair, I closed my eyes, hoping I wouldn’t come out looking like a chopped salad.
Later that night, I was feeling my newly cropped bangs with my fingers as we all piled into the car to go out to dinner with my dad’s buddies, the immigrant investors. My dad had been looking forward to this dinner all week, and Hank had volunteered to man the front desk so we could all go. We were meeting at Buffet Paradise, an all-you-can-eat restaurant.
“Remember, when we get there, don’t fill up on bread or rice,” my dad advised from the driver’s seat. When it came to buffets, my dad had more strategy than an army general. “Go straight for the crab legs and shrimp!”
“Or the ribs!” my mom added.
I rubbed my hands together. We hadn’t eaten all day in preparation for the big meal.
When we arrived, a bunch of my dad’s friends were already there, helping themselves to the slow-roasted beef tips, skipping the mashed potatoes. Like us, they had dressed strategically, in loose pants and big shirts.
My dad took a seat at the head of the table and started handing out checks to all his friends, their share of the motel profits that month. Dad was always enormously proud when he was handing out checks to his friends, his face shining like a steamed bun. And he should be. So many of them had put their hard-earned money into the Calivista and were counting on their portion of the profits.
“You know what we’re going to do with this money?” Auntie Ling asked. “We’re going to put it toward a second car!”
“Ooooooh!” My mom scooted over closer to Auntie Ling to get all the details—what make and model, what color. I knew she’d been itching to get one too, but my dad said it was too expensive.
Uncle Zhang, who was now parking cars over in Burbank, said in between bites, “With my cut, I’m going to study for a better job!”
My dad looked up from his crab leg. “What are you thinking of studying?” he asked.
“I was gonna try to take the electrical technician exam.” Like my mom, Uncle Zhang was an engineer back in China. I smiled as he told us his plans. He had come such a long way from being trapped in the basement of his employer’s house last year, working day and night. He pointed a rib at my mom.
“Ying, you should do it too!” Uncle Zhang exclaimed. “We could do it together!”
My mom turned to my dad, and they shared a look. “Can’t,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “Too busy cleaning rooms.”
All around the table, the aunties and uncles put down their food and held up their drinks. “And we appreciate it,” they said, toasting my parents. My parents smiled.
As everyone got up to get more food, I thought about my mom’s answer. Was she not happy cleaning rooms? Did she want to do something else instead? But we finally owned the motel, and business was going so well!
When I looked up, the adults were back with their third plates and talking about Proposition 187, the law that Governor Wilson wanted to pass. That’s what all the ads were for. If it passed, Prop 187 would kick undocumented children out of California schools, making it illegal for them to get an education or use public services like hospitals.
“Such a shame. My cousin’s kid is going to be affected,” Auntie Ling said. “They just got here from Changsha.”
“I myself almost became undocumented,” Uncle Zhang said, shaking his head. “If it weren’t for Mia, I wouldn’t have gotten my passport back from my employer on time to renew my visa.” He reached out and patted my hand. I smiled.
“But isn’t the legislation mostly targeting Mexicans?” Uncle Fung asked.
“We immigrants are all in the same boat,” my dad reminded his friends. “Don’t let them divide and conquer us. If this law passes, it’s bad for all of us.”
The aunties and uncles all nodded at my dad’s words as they ate. When at last I could feel my pants about to pop, my dad got up and settled the bill before any of his friends could protest. I looked to my mom, whose eyes were moving around the table, her lips silently counting as she did the math of how much the meal cost. My dad didn’t need to do the math. Pride filled me up as my dad paid, even more than the crab legs did.
On the way home, my mother sat next to me in the back of the car and asked my dad how much the bill was.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, batting away her concern with a hand. “It was good to see everyone, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but I don’t know why you always have to pay for everyone.”
“Of course we have to pay,” Dad said. “We’re Chinese, that’s what we do.” He glanced at my mom in the rearview mirror. “What, did you want us to split it?” He uttered the word split like it was a curse word.
“No, but there are things I’d like to be able to buy for us.”
“Like what?”
My mom shrugged. “Like a second car?”
“A second car? But we’re always at the motel!” He turned around and looked at my mom. “Do you have any idea how much a second car costs?”
“We could buy it on a credit card!” I offered. Now that we had a card machine, I got to see for myself the magic of these little cards. All you had to do is swipe, sign, and boom. All paid!
My mom’s eyes lit up. “That’s a great idea! We should get a credit card!”
“No, no, no, that’s a terrible idea,” Dad vetoed. “We’re not spending money before we have it. That’s such an American thing to do.”