Whenever Jeanette, LouLou or I start googling restaurants like Musso and Frank, feeling nostalgic, in a Rat Pack mood, while abroad typically means it’s high time we wind down that particular seven week sojourn. One thought indeed leads into others: maybe we’ll swing by Truly Mediterranean near San Francisco’s Roxie Theater March 28th upon arrival — the following Monday land at Lindbergh Field, drive north toward Encinitas for Lourdes’ zesty chicken soup — Wednesday hit Musso and Frank in Hollywood — finally, Sunday after our Spring 2017 engagement is complete, grab Yonah Schimmel’s knishes on Manhattan’s Lower East Side before flying to Milan by way of a Charles de Gaulle layover — sipping Angelina’s le chocolat chaud shall wait another year.
Moderation is invariably key; it kinda sounds posh in writing, however, I’m no Rockefeller; global bedouism on a set budget demands mindful organization. In observing travelers throughout many airports I can’t help but compare the two carry-on bags famiglia di Schiavo travels with to six extra-large roller boards stacked high on a Smarte Carte by another family of three or four. Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper rumbled off in Easy Rider with an ideal amount — motorcycles, bedrolls and the clothes on their backs. Obviously, our wardrobe or rather lack of here in steamy Bangkok is different than the bulkier attire necessary for San Francisco, New York and Milan. Los Angeles, along with San Diego’s North County by April should be as picture perfect as it gets anywhere; nonetheless, our two bags will be packed slightly fuller for points east.
Ninety-nine and nine tenths of my patrons accept me for the nonconformist I am. Less than a handful arrive for a Jehrcut, produce their cellphone before defrocking, accost me pulling up photos of previous cuts I’d done for them, pleading, “Jehr, can you do this again?” Months into years, the same patrons will show me those identical photos of previous appointments. I hope you realize these tenth of a percent exacting patrons wouldn’t mortify Alain Passard at Arpège entering his kitchen reminding him about a notable dinner he prepared months earlier. God bless my trusting patrons. The majority believe that cut they’ll leave with will reflect through osmosis my recent experience in a faraway location. For Alain Passard inspiration seeps in watching an awesome ballet, seeing a man and woman’s body become intertwined on stage. Sometime thereafter, a French chicken and duck were halved by Passard, each bird’s separate portion stitched together, roasted, surrounded by hay inside one of Arpège’s Le Creuset dutch ovens.
Nobody’s awarding Michelin stars to hairstylists, though if they miraculously began I wouldn’t turn it down, as Keith Richards and David Bowie both shunned knighthood by Queen Elizabeth. The understanding I absorbed these seven weeks in Bangkok is certainly not what I’ll deliver to my patrons on May 24th after Milan’s peregrination. The manner in which I’m able to concentrate solely on Jehrcuts during our American engagements is a treasure I view an honor, particularly throughout these seven week jaunts away. Skeptics might be curious, “What the hell could he find so inspiring about Bangkok?” People such as those are me quite frankly; I’m too a skeptic, in all probability, way guiltier than most. The answer to a skeptic’s question can be summed up stating, “content chaos.” To be sure, hair is an extension of the soul it grows from. Frequently a new patron will object, “My hair has a mind of its own; I’m just not happy with it!”
We’re itching to see Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper at Milan’s Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie — in the meantime, with footing firmly planted on Thailand’s soil, Buddhism reigns supreme. My response to a new patron’s grief could be easily solved (if he or she were open-minded) in Thailand. A whinging person ought to visit ancient Thai wats, remove their shoes before going inside, then permit Buddha’s quiet introduction, later ponder prayer mills, while sensing reverberation from baritone bells calling for the protection of Buddha. I’ve seen in amazement content on most Thai faces, whether peasant or inherited wealth; this culture without doubt appears serene. Most humans rise each morning disliking chaotic hair they see in the mirror. A Bangkok analogy: it’s trucks, cars and motorbikes vying for any available path forward, each vehicle eventually parking where they were headed. Ninety-nine and nine tenths of my patron’s opt to be at one with their hair; spending hours wrestling with it the first thing every day felt futile after our initial consultation.
We’ve met dozens of Northern Italian families vacationing in Sicily over the years. Sicily has forever been the brunt of many Italian’s ridicule (a boot kicking its younger sibling) yet their top choice selecting summer destinations. Each group of friends living in Lake Como, Verona, Cremona, Bergamo are within a comfortable train ride from Milano Centrale. These relationships have grown, presently entering a second decade, filling us with an extensive sense of connection. I’ve had a genuine crush on Navigli without having been there yet. From what I gather this enclave is Milan’s equivalent of Venice Beach, quaint canals and all. We’ll be hunkering down in the Brera Arts District near Milan’s center. Patti Smith is performing in the area next month, ticket prices are double what her American gigs cost, but hey, wouldn’t it be glorious?
It’s tough for me to remember patience, now seven flights ahead of myself. There’s still a few last minute Thai items we’ve been eyeballing. In keeping with the Easy Rider approach, these frivolous things are small enough to fit inside those two loose carry-on bags we came here with February 9th.
I’m useless at multitasking; there’s no way I can concentrate on Jehrcuts while simultaneously meeting a weekly deadline for innersanctvm.blog. It’s possible I’ll make use of these upcoming two or three weeks with auxiliary postings. Be that as it may, April 13th does seem a realistic day for the next up-to-date Milanese prose.