Marie is a hairdresser. Just by looking at her now, one can easily imagine how beautiful she must have been in her youth—bright eyes, a fair, oval face, and a slender figure that remains graceful even in her fifties. Her own hairstyle is always naturally soft and stylish. With decades of experience and craftsmanship, she has an eye for tailoring the perfect cut to suit each customer’s face and personality. She says she’s an overseas Chinese from Vietnam, and that her ancestors migrated from Fujian to Vietnam in search of a better life.
One day, a long-haired woman hurried into her salon, anxious and upset about a bad haircut she’d received elsewhere. Marie greeted her with a warm smile: “Take a seat for a bit. Once I finish with this customer, I’ll take a look at your hair.”
After finishing her work, she invited the woman to sit before the mirror and examined her hair carefully. “It’s fixable,” she said, “but it can’t be fixed in just one go. The parts that are too short need to grow out first. I’ll give you a trim today, and if you come back in a month or two, I can gradually shape it into the style you want.”
She added with a reassuring smile, “Don’t worry. I’ll help you save money—no cutting, perming, or coloring unless it’s really needed.”
The customer nodded. “Alright. If I like how it looks today, I’ll definitely come back.”
Marie went to work with her scissors and razor. In just half an hour, the once-frowning woman left the salon smiling.
When I go in for a haircut, I often hear Marie chatting with the nail techs in Vietnamese. The tone is almost musical—like singing—but I can’t understand a word of it. When she talks to me, it’s a mix of Mandarin with scattered English words, all wrapped in a thick Vietnamese accent. It’s kind of charming, really.
Talking about Vietnamese people in America always reminds me of the waves of refugees who fled by sea during the late 1970s and early ’80s. One day, during a haircut, I asked her out of curiosity, “When did you come to the U.S.?”
“1985,” she said. “The first time I tried to escape, I was sixteen. My family scraped together a few gold bars and handed them to a smuggler—only gold would do—to get us on a boat.”
I asked, “Where were you headed?”
“A small boat first took us to an island with a refugee camp. The U.S., UK, France, Australia… they all sent officers to verify who qualified for asylum. Once approved, they’d take you in. Sometimes the wait took a year or two.”
She continued, “That first attempt, I was caught and detained. My Dad had to pull strings to get me released. My parents were terrified we’d end up in a labor camp. They told us, if there’s any chance to get out, take it. The second attempt was even harder. My brother and I left from Saigon, but we had to sneak into the countryside first.”
“Why not go straight to the coast?” I asked.
She sighed. “There were no boats left near Saigon. The government had tight control. Smugglers were afraid. Only in remote rural areas by the sea could you even find someone willing.”
“But I got caught again,” she said. “My brother managed to escape. I didn’t know what happened to him until much later. He made it to a refugee camp and eventually came to the U.S. after a year.”
She paused. “That time, I ended up in detention again. I was just sixteen, and scared out of my mind. Luckily, my older cousin was with me. About a dozen of us girls were crammed into a room without a bathroom. We had to go out into a field to relieve ourselves—I was too afraid to. For two weeks, I didn’t go at all. I barely ate or drank, and I was terrified every day.”
She let out a small laugh. “There was a young guard who was kind to me. Sometimes he brought me food and told me not to be scared. Later I found out my family had bribed someone—he was a local Vietnamese guy. He liked me.”
I felt a tightness in my chest. “How long were you locked up?” I asked.
“You won’t believe it, but I swear it’s true,” she said. “At night, we kept hearing crying sounds. One of the older women told us that a young man had died there recently—he’d been caught trying to flee and locked up in the same room. One day, for no reason, he just died. No coffin, no ceremony. They buried him in a shallow grave. She said his spirit was still wandering around, crying.”
“One night, the Senior Woman took out a Bible and laid a Vietnamese newspaper over it. She started praying. And then—the paper moved. Some words showed up on it.”
I leaned in. “What did it say?”
“‘Cold.’ ‘Hungry.’ ‘Coffin.’ ‘Spirit.’” Marie looked serious. “The Old woman prayed again, said if we could get out soon, we’d buy him a coffin, give him a proper burial, and pray for his peace.”
“Two days later, we were released. Everyone chipped in to buy a coffin, and someone helped us find a burial spot. For the next few years, I’d still go to a temple to light incense for him.”
“Wait,” I asked, “Wasn’t that a Bible? And you prayed at a Buddhist temple?”
She smiled. “Yeah. Our family’s Buddhist. But after what happened—I just felt grateful. I wanted to do something for him.”
“So your third escape finally worked?”
She shook her head. “No, after that I got sick. I was exhausted from being caught twice. I didn’t dare try again. My dad Dad already sold off everything for gold. We were out of options. I waited. Years later, my Aunt in the U.S. agreed to sponsor me. That’s how I came to America—as a refugee.”
She paused, then added, “There was this one girl—really beautiful—who escaped with her boyfriend. They suppose Mary that time, but they don’t have time yet. On the ocean at the boat, pirates attacked and robbed everyone’s valuables and… assaulted the girl. Right in front of her fiancé. When they reached Australia and were accepted as refugees, the boy friend broke up with her immediately. She later married a wealthy Australian businessman.”
She looked away. “That story haunted me. I used to have nightmares.”
“So when you came to the U.S., how did you start cutting hair?” I asked.
“My Aunt was a barber, working in someone else’s shop. I started as an apprentice in a store. The government gave us some basic welfare and offered job training programs. I took English classes, learned haircutting and nail tech, got my licenses. It was hard—so hard—but I had to become self-sufficient.”
She chuckled. “One time, a nursing home hired me to give haircuts. They said most of the residents were men with short hair, simple jobs, $15 each, tips included. I brought another barber along. But when we walked in—oh my God—there were so many people! Some hadn’t had haircuts in months, some couldn’t even sit up straight. One old lady said she used to be a dancer and wanted something ‘flowy and romantic.’”
“We worked for five straight hours, even cutting hair for people lying in bed. Our arms were dead by the end. We didn’t even make that much. I told myself, ‘Never again!’”
I watched her face in the mirror. She was laughing, but behind the humor, I saw grit—decades of survival turned into stories, pain softened into jokes. Her scissors had cut through more than hair; they’d sliced through hardship, trimmed away fear, shaped a new life out of scraps.
“Is this your shop?” I asked.
“It was my Aunt’s. She worked until she was in her seventies. When she retired, many of the regulars—mostly Mexican folks—brought flowers. She passed it down to me. I didn’t want to take over, honestly, but I did.”
“I’m not afraid my job. But owning a shop? You’ve got to deal with taxes, landlords, health inspectors, labor laws… it’s exhausting. I only keep going for my family.”
She pointed to the nail section. “I don’t do nails anymore. My sister and sister-in-law handle that now.”
She looked at me. “You know why eight out of ten nail salons in California are run by Vietnamese?”
I smiled. “I do. It’s a beautiful story. Ms.Tippi Hedren—the Hollywood actress—helped the early refugees get into the hair and nail industry. She was the Godmother of the Vietnamese Nail Industry.”
She laughed. “You know more than some of us do!”
“We should all thank her,” I said. “She gave Vietnamese women hope, jobs, and dignity. And early refugees built something lasting—nail and hair salons that are still helping generations today.”
We kept chatting as she trimmed the last strands of my hair. It felt like history was being whispered into the air along with the snip of her scissors.
Sunlight streamed through the glass door, falling across the faded sign that read: ‘Hair & Nails Salon.’ One little shop. One woman’s journey. A lifetime of storms tucked inside a pair of steady hands. The Vietnam War changed the lives of millions and reshaped entire communities. And she, like so many who found a new home in a foreign land, quietly carved a life out of resilience—with nothing but a pair of scissors, and endless resolve.
