Thirty-Six
Hana and I spend a happy day wandering around Seoul and eating until we feel like we’re going to explode. Bindaetteok follows mandu follows bibimbap. Hana helps me find vegetarian options since a large portion of the food seems to revolve around pork belly.
It’s not until she’s with me that I understand what had been lingering in my mind since I arrived. It’s a shift to be in a city where most people resemble me because they’re Asian. I glance over as we sit on a bench in Hongdae, watching the buskers. “This feels strange. Everyone looks like us.”
“I know.” She sips her lilac-colored boba tea. “You get used to looking different back home.”
“Asian as descriptor.”
She laughs. “Yeah, your defining quality in a crowd. Here, it’s irrelevant. I get looked at for my nose shape or my shoes, not for being Korean. I like it, at least to visit. It feels restful.”
We finish our drinks and head for our next destination.
The next day is the special VIP show, and I wake to a selfie of Jihoon holding the hand talisman and making a heart with his fingers. Despite the dark night of the soul that brought him to Toronto, Jihoon is fully engaged in what he’s doing. A buzz of energy sparks off him.
I want that feeling, too. I got a glimpse of it when working on Alex’s music proposal. At Yesterly and Havings, I only have the satisfaction of completing the job and that’s it. I want more.
“Are you getting ready?” Hana’s voice is at the door.
I put the phone away, deciding to redirect my misgivings about work into a markedly more trivial concern, which is that there’s nothing I want to wear tonight. I have not a single garment that will kick-start the confidence I need to stand out among the multiple-step-skin-care gorgeous people who will be screaming for StarLune.
Hana comes in as I’m poking disconsolately through my boring clothes. She looks cute, I observe with resentment. Loving resentment. Envious loving resentment, even though I never saw the point in dressing with style since most of my day was spent at work and lawyers aren’t generally lauded for their fashion-forward approach.
“I hate my clothes,” I say. “I need to go shopping.”
She closes her eyes and bends her head. “I have waited years to hear you say that,” she breathes. “You’ve made me the happiest woman in the world.”
“Please stop. I want a bit of change, that’s all.”
“You never want change,” she says. “You want certainty. You eat the same thing. When a pair of shoes wears out, you buy the exact same ones as replacements and get upset if you can’t.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
She ignores that. “You haven’t even cut your hair in a decade.”
“I get trims.”
“You get trims.” Her eye twitches.
“Wanting a new pair of pants is hardly earth-shattering.”
“The pants are not the point.” Her eyes and mouth open wide as if she’s had an epiphany. “Hold on.”
“What?”
“This isn’t about the pants at all.” She points at me. “You’re in psychological terra incognita, and it’s driving you bats.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I dig through my clothes and toss a shirt—plain, black—into the suitcase.
“Nope.” Hana nods vigorously. “Here you are away from your Tuesday laundry and your meal prep and your predictable Steves and Garys or whoever you deal with at work. You, my friend, are in a situation you can’t regulate and you’re spinning.”
I go to the window and yank the curtains open to reveal the bucolic forest view even though we’re basically in the middle of Seoul. Being rich is nice. “You make it sound like I’m some sort of control freak who can’t function unless I’m standing on top with a whip.”
“I don’t kink shame.”
“Hana.”
She stands and lifts one of my—plain, black—shirts to her chest. “You’ve always had your life planned. Law school. Law firm. Live close to your parents. You never had to make a choice, Ari. Now you can and it’s scary.”
“I don’t know what this has to do with buying pants.”
She lifts her eyebrows at me. “You should think about it, then.”
“Sometimes pants are only pants.” I check the time. We’re getting behind on the schedule I have planned. I can make do with the clothes I have. “Anyway, yesterday we went all historical with Gyeongbokgung Palace and the museums, so today I thought a walk along Cheonggyecheon Stream. Then lunch at Gwangjang Market and a surprise for the afternoon.”
“Nope. We’re going shopping.”
“But…” I think of the itinerary I’ve set out.
“For an hour,” she wheedles. “The stream and all those cute places will be there after we shop. Think of it as an experience.”
“We can shop in Toronto.”
“Trust me, not like this.”
I catch sight of another one of my plain black shirts. “Okay. Only for a bit, though.”
Hana leaps out of my room, voice echoing down the hall. “Let’s do one of Jihoon’s ridiculously expensive masks before we go.”
With our skin fully hydrated, we go downstairs, where Hana enters an animated discussion with Yeong, who generously agreed to drive us around. The two of them check their phones like they’re planning a heist before Hana nods and we head off.
“We’re going shopping in Myeongdong.” She gives me an appraising look. “There’s a lot, so it might be a little overwhelming for a baby consumer.”
I let that pass. “I don’t even know what I want.”
She’s almost bouncing. “You want to look good for Jihoon tonight.”
“It sounds bad when you phrase it like that.”
“Jihoon’s seen you in sweats, and he likes you, but you want to blow his socks off.”
I do want to, but I don’t want to admit that out loud.
“You want to kiss boring black goodbye,” she continues.
“I like wearing black,” I protest.
“I said boring black. We can get you some interesting black.”
Interesting black seems like a contradiction, but I’m warming up to the whole idea. “I need new things for work. I don’t want to look like a lawyer when I go into Luxe. Or Hyphen.”
Hana glances over my hair, tied back in a smooth bun, and my nude lipstick. “Got it.”
During the rest of the ride, she pulls up various social media accounts to get a sense of what I like. It’s a frustrating exercise for both of us, since what I like and what I feel comfortable in are not the same thing. By the time we arrive at a bustling district filled with people and vertical shop signs, I’m certain this is a bad idea. Hana taps me on the shoulder. “It’s only pants,” she says.
Pants can be only pants. Me in new pants is still me. I cheer up.
Hana and Yeong map out a more fulsome plan of attack, alternately pointing or frowning at various stores. They turn to me and purse their lips, then Hana shakes her head. Yeong says something that makes Hana’s eyes widen, and they start nodding.
“This is so cool,” she whispers as Yeong gets on his phone.
“What is?” I’m suspicious because we have conflicting ideas on what counts as cool.
“There are salons that cater to idols, where they get their hair and makeup done.”
“No, Hana.”
“I don’t want to beg,” says Hana.
“Good. It’s demeaning for both of us.”
“But I will,” she continues, undaunted. “Please, please pretty please with a cherry on top, let’s go to Jeebie’s.”
“Hana.”
“I won’t let them do anything drastic, I swear.”
“Why do you want to go so badly?”
She blinks. “Because this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience with some of the top stylists in a country famous for its style? They’ll make us so hot.”
“We’re hot now,” I remind her.
“Yeah, but exceptionally hot. We’ll be hottified.”
“That’s not a word.” Despite my quibbles, I admit that sounds kind of appealing. Also, it will make Hana happy. “All right. We can go.”
She claps her hands. “Shopping first.”