The first thing I noticed as I reclined in the dental chair was the new artwork on the wall—red and black strokes depicting a rock band in performance. As I stared at it, a thought struck me: Dr. Bastani had been my dentist since my first job after college. The thought brought a slight sense of comfort as I braced myself for the instruments that would soon descend into my mouth.
Dr. Bastani is a mild-mannered Persian man with two daughters, whom he occasionally takes to Disneyland. His office used to be near the 19th Street BART station in Downtown Oakland, but the landlord evicted him to make way for an apartment development that never materialized due to COVID. He ended up relocating a few blocks away in Chinatown, where he’s been ever since.
I asked him how he’d been. “Same old, same old,” he said with a warm smile, though his tone carried a familiar hint of resignation. “How’s work for you?”
I told him about my realization. “Yes, time flies. I feel the same when I see my patients,” he said. “When I meet them, it often reminds me that yet another half a year has passed.”
After ten uncomfortable minutes, Dr. Bastani examined my dental X-rays. “Looks like you’ve survived another year!” he said. Indeed, that’s a good way to put it. He patted my shoulder, signaling the visit was over. “Try Sensodyne,” he said as he turned off his headlamp. “See if it helps.”
I asked if he planned to take time off during the winter holiday. “It’s more like we are forced to these days,” he said. He explained that his office used to be busy during the year-end break since patients had more time then, but now, with more people working remotely, it’s easier for them to visit during the work week. “The holidays are quiet now. The trend has shifted,” he added.
His assistant asked if I’d like another appointment in six months.
“Same time,” I replied. “First thing in the morning, please.”
The only other reason I go to Oakland Chinatown these days is to see my barber, David. I visit him at least every other month, which means it’s been more than a hundred times in the thirteen years since we first met. It’s startling that I meet my hairstylist more frequently than almost all of my family and friends.
David knows quite a bit about my personal life; he even did the bridal hair for Y for free on our wedding day. Comically, he still doesn’t know my name after all these years. I must, however, frame this fun fact in context: David used to follow the Golden State Warriors a few years ago when the team was the star in the NBA. The only player he knows by name is Stephen Curry. He calls him Curry jai (咖哩仔)—jai being a Cantonese term of endearment for a young man—and I’m quite certain he doesn’t know Curry’s first name. Other players are referred to by their jersey numbers, like “Number 11” for Klay Thompson. My point is, you first need to be as famous as the world’s best three-point shooter for David to know half of your name.
David has recently faced some serious medical conditions. Earlier this year, he fell and broke his right hand in the shop. He has worked on countless remodeling projects due to three relocations over the years—framing drywalls, wiring electrical, pouring concrete, trimming baseboards, and hanging cabinets—all without a major accident. Then, one regular workday, he just slipped while not doing anything dangerous. A doctor had to operate on him and placed permanent metal plates and screws in his right wrist.
Later in the year, he was diagnosed with liver tumor. His tumor removal surgery lasted over ten hours. “The doctor started at seven in the morning and didn’t finish until five-thirty,” he told me. “They said they’d make at least four holes. In the end, they made six.” Last month, he showed me the recovering holes across his chest and torso. Thankfully, they weren’t too large—each about the size of a small coin—since the surgery had been “minimally invasive” with robotics.
When I walked into his shop this week, David was working with a commercial electric drain snake in the bathroom. “Need to fix the plumbing—very stuck.” he said. “Too much hair with everyone working,” he added, referring to the few other hairstylists who rent seats in the shop.
I pointed out that plumbing work with machinery seemed intense for someone who had recently undergone two major surgeries. “I asked my younger brother to help, but no one showed up for days,” he said. “It’s not like he has work or anything. Plumbing can’t wait.”
I asked if his hand still hurt. “Cutting hair isn’t an issue,” he said, “But moving heavy things is hard. At the end of the day, though, I got to figure it out myself. I can’t rely on others—not even family.” He is the oldest of five siblings.
We went quiet as I sat in the chair. A few minutes later, David turned off the hair clipper and said, “Still, I feel very lucky.”
I asked him why.
“My mother had the same thing [liver tumor] as I do,” he replied. “She passed away young when she was forty-eight. Back then, the healthcare technology wasn’t so advanced.”
David turned sixty a few months ago—his birthday was August 2, 1964, the same year as my parents. His eldest son is my age.
“I’m still alive,” he said, looking at me in the eye through the mirror. “I stay busy, I stay strong.”