When I was in middle school, my mother would ask me to look through her hair to pluck her grays. After one 10-minute session, I would count out eight or so strands and ask for the promised $2. My mother would then inspect the hairs and disqualify the two black ones I had tried to pass off before giving me a single dollar bill (she subtracted a whole dollar as penalty for wasting two good hairs). At some point, she stopped asking me to do this and, instead, began dyeing her hair black. Her hair stayed black for another 10 years until last winter. Returning home for the holidays, I eyed the shock of white twisting through her crown and imagined that another plucking would leave her half bald. How much money would that add up to? I wondered.
Having grown up in the United States with most of my extended family in Korea, I am used to the prospect of seeing people once every few years. And, having spent most of my life so far being the one doing the growing, I imagine that those aunts, uncles and grandparents I visited received a far more striking impression than I did every time I would show up a head taller and 20 pounds heavier, while they stayed, as far as I could tell, the same. Now, I am a busy medical student, the last one to remain in the States, and my parents have joined the list of people I see once every one to three years. Now, I am the one who receives a striking impression. Pigment has vanished from the tops of heads and shows up as spots on arms, legs and faces that I swear are thinner than I remember. Reading glasses have become a permanent facial fixture, and beard hairs are left unbothered by the retiree.
I know already that I won’t be seeing them for some time. Whether I visit this winter, or next summer, or the winter after that, I can’t help but anticipate the inevitable surprise I will feel when I return, and hope only to lessen that feeling as much as I can. And yet, staying busy with school makes it easy to forget about everything else. What if family doesn’t cross my mind until suddenly, I am on the plane ride back, unprepared for the reminder that things will have changed? Time still passes in that Seoul apartment, for those people who occupy it, whether I am there asking for dinner, or sleeping in, or plucking gray hairs, or nowhere to be seen because I am halfway around the world. Time passes even now.
Earlier this month, my mom asked me to ship her pomegranate extract. My dad wants a windbreaker for his birthday — he’s started running. They both tell me to call more often.
I can look at athletic wear tomorrow and shop for supplements the day after. Then, I can go to FedEx this weekend. And I can call them tonight.
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