Body politic

I’ve known Rodolfo, the guy who cuts my hair, for about 20 years now. Our conversations generally run to his latest trip somewhere, or where to find various foodstuffs, or—you know—hair stuff. In all the time I’ve known him, I don’t think we’ve ever talked politics. You don’t with clients, and even if you discover someone’s views agree with yours, in a salon you don’t know whether other clients agree with you, and everything's public in a salon.

But this time we very carefully worked our way to the elections—because, seriously, who’s not going to talk about the Groundhog Day of train wrecks? Plus, as a naturalized citizen, Rodolfo is fully cognizant of how the Founding Fathers built the framework of our government’s intended checks and balances; he knows how things were supposed to work so we can get to the realities.

He said two things that I think are good to pass on:

First, he described how, when he first came here in the 80s, US government seemed like a shining city upon a hill (not his actual words, but his intent)—so different from the corruption all up and down the spectrum in Mexico. But now, it’s pretty much the same; the transactions are just done in English.

Well, I certainly can’t argue with that. Sadly.

The other thing cracked me up. Evidently a lot of clients are bringing up the current candidates, and one of his long-timers, a Republican, asked Rodolfo whom he’s voting for. He replied, “I’m a Mexican. Who do you think?”