Last Monday, I went to get a haircut. Beside me sat a little boy perched on a wooden plank bridging the arms of the barber’s chair. It was his first haircut. How did I know? Because his parents were flitting round and round him, taking photos from every angle. I recalled my two boys and each of their first encounters with a hairdresser — and, as they grew up to man’s estate, the one and only mistake I ever made in my life.
It was July. Alex was working in Vancouver. Chris was on a university exchange in Surabaya, Indonesia. Laura was visiting her parents in the Philippines for the summer.
I called her. “There’s a cheap flight going to Hong Kong next week. Would you like to meet me there? You’re only a few hours away.” She jumped at the chance.
“We can stay in Kowloon at the Salisbury YMCA. I’ll get there before you so I can collect you from the airport.”
Any time I go abroad on a family holiday, I leave my phone and iPad at home. Laura and our boys carry enough devices to service an army.
Unfortunately, I made the fatal mistake of letting Alex know of our plans and where we were staying.
It was around 9 a.m. I was watching CNN on TV. Because of the time difference, it was the previous evening in North America. I was watching the Democratic Convention. Hillary Clinton was about to be crowned their candidate to run against Trump in the coming election.
The phone rang. It must be room service.
“Pops!” Oh my — it was Alex. What was wrong? A car accident? Had Mum fallen ill and couldn’t make it?
“Remember I applied for the GMAT late? I got high scores. Based on them, Georgetown University in Washington has given me a scholarship. It was my first choice. Can I go? I’ll need to be there next month to find accommodation and enroll.”
I felt like throwing up. “But aren’t you going to Hult?”
Alex had been given a scholarship to this international school of business in London. They had even sent him airfare to visit. He did — over a weekend — because he didn’t want to miss work. All this, he organised within days.
On his return, I asked, “Lex, how much was your taxi fare from the airport?”
“Taxi? I took the Underground, like you taught us .”
That morning in Hong Kong, hunched over the phone, my one regret was that I’d woken up late and hadn’t taken a shower. If I had, I might have escaped his call.
“How can you change your mind like that? We’ve already paid for your school!” (Scholarship was doublespeak for a 25% discount while we still had to fork out the other 75% of Alex’s fees.) “Is it refundable?”
“I don’t know,” was his curt answer, leaving me to hunt for my anti-blood-pressure pills.
“What about the deposit you made on your accommodation in London?”
“We’ll have to find out. Pops, I need to answer Georgetown right away.” What could I say?
In mid-winter, Alex called from Washington. “Pops, remember Fred, my university friend from Korea? He’s asked me to join him for the last four days of the Olympic Games. He’s got tickets for the hockey finals and the closing ceremonies.”
By this time, Alex had changed course from Business and Finance to Sports Management. How was he going to find a job with that kind of degree? Like every sensible Asian parent, we expected great things of our son. If Alex couldn’t be a highly paid heart surgeon, he could at least become an international tax lawyer earning mega-bucks. Like most immigrant parents, our dreams were shattered.
“Didn’t you say your mid-term exams began this week?”
“I asked my prof for a deferral. He agrees attending the Games is an experience of a lifetime. I’ll leave on Wednesday and be back Monday morning. Fred — what a chosen name for a Korean — says he can introduce me to all the organisers. I could get a job with them in the future.”
“What about your expenses?”
“I’ve got wads of Air Miles to cover my flight. Fred’s providing me with accommodation and free tickets to the events. He’ll even introduce me to the organizing committee.”
Back in Hong Kong, shaking so much, thinking of the money we could lose on Alex’s aborted UK venture, I could barely settle the phone on its cradle as I collapsed onto the bed.
Whom the Gods disfavour, they saddle with impossibly independent children.
