Man Bun Christmas
For three months, I worked next to him, unpacking local kale, Swiss chard, and cilantro from cardboard boxes. Watching him. Watching the way the veins in his forearms undulated when he used the X-Acto knife to slice the tape on boxes of bean soup cans. The flex in his biceps when he lifted packed up oranges, slinging them around. The way his back moved, sinuously, when he pushed the dolly of cases of Santa Ynez wine into the back room.
Working at Tri-County Produce, a not quite frowzy store with only four aisles, I had the opportunity to look at him, constantly. A Santa Barbara institution, the shop attracted everyone from snobby chefs to bargain hunters, because it stocked local, organic produce at reasonable prices. The front of the store opened to the street entirely; there were no doors or windows and the coastal breezes wafted in until we shut the rolling garage-type door at night. It was a semi-indoors farmer’s market that boasted local wines, vinegars, olives, and other treats, in addition to the veggies.
Jeremy Chisholm, my hot co-worker, invaded my brain so frequently, it was getting to be near-constant. In addition to his meaty body, his green-brown eyes, tanned skin, and regular, classic features, supported many a daydream of mine. Most of the time he had a scruffy beard. And he had a tattoo on his arm that peeked out of his shirt on occasion. I didn’t know what it was. But his most striking feature was his glorious hair: long, and dirty blonde. When it was down, it hit the middle of his back, but most of the time he anchored it in a messy man bun.
I didn’t know where guys learned to do the man bun. Maybe there were how-to videos on YouTube. But the way Jeremy did it, most of the time, it perched, not squarely on the top of his head, not way down on at the back near the nape, but where the top and back met, sort of diagonal from his chin, if that makes sense.
On some people the man bun looks silly, but on Jeremy? It suited him. Tendrils escaped occasionally, and the whole pile of hair was wound up, shoved inside a hair band, and constituted way more hair than most mortals needed.
I liked hippie guys. I had a crush on Jeremy. So damn hot.
Le sigh.
Jared Leto, Brock O’Hurn, and Harry Styles, eat your heart out.
This wasn’t a ridiculous crush where I viewed him from afar: he knew that I was alive, because he greeted me every day, saying “Hi Gretchen,” as I stacked green grocery baskets, straightened shelves of local olive oil, and worked one of the three cash registers. He seemed a little clueless, though, and barely talked with anyone else.
I started working at Tri-County while I worked to get my degree in Botany. I wanted to go work for the Forest Service, inventorying rare, native, California plants. But right now, I just needed to finish up my course work, and slinging organic vegetables was as good a way as any to do it. Besides, I could astonish people with nerd facts, like how cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage, and kale, all stemmed from the same species, Brassica oleracea.
Okay, maybe no one was astonished with that.
Now that it was December in California, these “cold weather” crops were coming in. Cold weather in California meant that sometimes it was 60 degrees. At night. #blessed. We were also getting the special treats for the holidays: bags of cranberries, piles of sweet potatoes, stacks of orders for free-range, local turkeys, kits to make gingerbread houses, tins of spices to mull cider or wine, and mesh bags of gelt.
But I had no one to enjoy these treats with. My parents had decided to go out of the country for Christmas, and, because of school, I couldn’t leave town. Instead of presents, long ago, we had decided to give each other adventures: trips to the Galapagos, safaris in Namibia, a pilgrimage to Ayres Rock in Australia. Not this year, though. I was getting a major student loan payment from my parents and they were headed to the Christmas markets in Germany. Yes, I was grateful. But it wasn’t exactly something that made me feel the glee of a little kid at the holidays. More like the doom of the real world of being a grown up. It wasn’t something that I could unwrap or experience. So I wasn’t complaining, but it did make me feel a little melancholy, rather than warming my heart.
A week before Christmas, Jeremy was unloading cartons of cageless eggs in the back, while I stacked boxes of plump, ripe tangerines just up the aisle. Sweet, seedless, and juicy, they were a local holiday treat. As we straightened the new inventory, wearing our aprons, and trying to stay out of the way of customers, a slim, no-nonsense woman walked up to us, briskly, holding a stack of flyers.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “I know that Tri-County supports a lot of charities, but I was wondering if you would mind if I set out these up front. We are going to have a big turkey dinner at the Presidio homeless shelter on Christmas Eve, and we need volunteers to set up, cook, serve, and clean up.”
“Uh,” said Jeremy.
I reached over and took the flyers. “I’ll have to check with our manager, but I don’t think there will be any problems.”
She smiled. “There’s nothing like the feeling of giving, at any time, but especially at the holidays. It’s a special event. If you can come, we’d love to have you. I’m Charlene,” and she stuck out her hand.
I juggled the flyers into my other hand, shook hers, and introduced myself. “This is Jeremy,” I said, “he works with me.”
“You should both go,” urged Charlene. “It’s a great event, and really helps the community.”
“I’ll think about it. Thanks.” I had no intention of going to a soup kitchen, but I also had nothing else to do for Christmas. So, maybe. I turned to him, momentarily distracted by his hair and then got inspired, suddenly. “I’ll go if you go.”
His mouth actually dropped open, which was comical, and he stared at me.
I laughed. “You don’t have to, you know, but I don’t have anything else to do Christmas Eve. My family is going out of town.”
Nodding, he said, “Neither do I. I was going to go to a friend’s house, but yeah, I’ll go.”
“Excellent,” said Charlene, clapping her hands. “The information is all on the flyer. Email me if you have any questions, otherwise I’ll see you Christmas Eve.” She walked, with purpose, out of the store, and Jeremy and I looked at each other.
I smiled, leaned over, and gave him a little nudge in the side, realizing that it was hard muscle. Yum. “C’mon. It will be fun.”
He nodded. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“Me neither.” I paused. “Why don’t you have anything else to do?”
“I moved out here from Portland, and I don’t really have the funds to fly home. So I was going to crash at my friend Dan’s house and spend the holiday with him and his girlfriend, Erika.” He paused. “But I’d like to spend it with you.”
My eyes widened and I inhaled. What did that mean? Did he like me? He barely talked to anyone, although he did always say “Hi” to me.
I would just accept that and go with it.
“Let me have your cell phone number,” I said, “so we can go over there together.”
“Okay.” He pulled out his phone.
Hmm. Now I had his delicious man bun access number in my possession. Things were about to get . . . interesting.
That evening, as I studied for my last final, I texted my friend Cecilia, who already knew about my three-month-long-crush on Jeremy. “I got his number. We’re going to go volunteer at a soup kitchen on Christmas Eve.”
Cecilia, a model-esque African-American with close-cropped, curly hair, slim hips, and legs that went up to her armpits, never had problems getting a date. She also knew of my infatuation and had been encouraging me to take a step with Jeremy since I had started. With the news that I had his number and a chance to see him outside of work—not sure that it was a date—the alerts on my phone from her kept coming and coming:
What are you going to wear?
What did he saaaaaayyyyyyyyyy?
OMG OMG OMG
ARE YOU GOING TO TEXT HIM?
And so on.
Her enthusiasm fed into mine, and for the first time, I felt nervous. This was no big deal, right? It was just volunteering at a soup kitchen. NBD.
But it felt like something more. It felt like a date.
Sucking in my breath, I found myself typing in my phone, Looking forward to Xmas Eve, and hitting “send” to the god in a man bun.
Instantly, I received: Me too. ;)
Winky smiley face. I didn’t want to analyze the significance of the winky smiley face, or the differences between winky smiley and regular smiley. I’d drive myself bananas.
But then my phone lit up again: Pick you up at noon Xmas Eve?
We needed to get there early for a five o’clock dinner. Heck yeah, I’d ride with him.
K
Christmas Eve arrived. Over the past week, since I was done with school until next year, I had doubled up on my hours, earning overtime. But instead of just a “Hi Gretchen,” from Jeremy, he chatted with me more, asking me how my day was, what I thought about the new products coming in, and telling me about himself.
He grew up in Portland, and came to Santa Barbara to go to school. He was studying environmental engineering.
So my impression that he was clueless was way off. There was a brain in that head under the trendy hair; he was just shy.
While Tri-County was open Christmas Eve until five o’clock, both of us had taken the day off. Our boss, who heartily supported local charities, approved the time off. At noon, Jeremy drove up to my apartment in an old Jetta. Wearing a tight, black t-shirt, and dark jeans, his hair gathered up on top, he looked scorching hot. I was dressed utilitarian-style, in comfy jeans, a soft, red sweater that complemented my straight, dark brown hair, and Converse.
As we walked out to his car, he reached over and held my hand.
My heart started pounding. Any pretense that this wasn’t a date fell away. This was a date. He liked me.
As Cecilia would say, OMG OMG OMG.
When we got to his car, he unlocked the passenger side for me and closed the door, then went over to his side. I always loved it when guys did this. Yes, it was a little old-fashioned, but it also showed that they were thinking about you.
When he got into the driver’s side, he buckled his seat and then looked over at me, giving me a shy smile.
“You look so pretty,” he said.
And my lips went dry. My heart raced. I breathed out a “Thanks,” but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
We drove, talking about music. It turned out that he liked the same bands as me, which mattered to me. When we pulled up to the Presidio homeless shelter, which was a block away from the beach, near the railroad tracks, he parked, and as I undid the seatbelt, he reached over to help. “It gets stuck,” he said. “There’s a trick.” And as he got me out of the seatbelt, my hand may have accidentally-on-purpose grazed his muscular forearms.
This was going to be a long day.
We walked up to the shelter, hand in hand. Charlene greeted us, looking as efficient as she had when she had asked us to volunteer, but also a little harried, and pleased to see us. She immediately put us to work, having us set up chairs and tables in the vast auditorium, get out paper plates and plastic utensils, and set up coffee, hot water, and other drinks.
In the cramped, not overly large industrial kitchen, an army of cooks prepared turkey dinners. The whole place smelled like gravy and roast. Metal spoons clanked on the edges of huge, rectangular metal pans. The air was warm, friendly, and buzzing with activity. Jeremy and I went back and forth and all over the place, from the kitchen to the auditorium, setting up, arranging, and helping however we could.
The time slid by. It felt like a second later, it was five o’clock, and time to start serving the holiday dinner. I took a place next to Jeremy in the serving line: he had mashed potato duty, I had gravy.
And then the doors open and a line of people formed, ready to be fed.
I’d never done this before. I didn’t know what to expect. Homeless people were all over Santa Barbara, especially along the fancy State Street, pushing carts in front of Nordstrom, playing guitars on benches, and sitting with the best-behaved dogs I’d ever seen.
Before coming to the soup kitchen, the stereotypes that I had in my head about the homeless were as follows: they were dirty, mentally ill, and made me uncomfortable. Sorry, I’m just being truthful. I was here tonight to help, yes, but also because I had nowhere else to be and because I wanted to get up close and personal with the tangled nest of hair on his head.
But here, I took a good look at the people in line: all ages, all races, and all sizes. Mostly men, but not all of them. Most of them were clean, with baggy clothing, and haircuts. I think that the shelter provided toiletries and showers, in addition to food and beds.
This was a different experience than walking past someone panhandling on the street and trying to figure out if it was better to give them change or not. Did giving them change encourage a drug problem? Or did it give them a next meal? I normally just walked on by. Here, though, they walked by me, getting mashed potatoes from him, and then a ladle of the gravy from me. Confronting my preconceived ideas, I tried to look at each one in his or her eyes. Some didn’t look at me, but most smiled, chatted, and cracked jokes.
When they did look at me, however, most of the time I saw the look of gratitude in our connection. Gratitude for food, for sustenance beyond just physical needs of the body, but also the need for the human connection.
This contrasted, in a good way, from what it felt like to look down at my shoes and walk fast past a panhandler. This felt like service to another human being. This felt like kindness.
An hour and a half later, we had fed a ton of people. I don’t know how many. Hundreds? My back ached and my feet were tired, but I was happy. Gravy had dripped on my clothes and we all smelled like turkey. Magically, he had managed to not get any mashed potatoes on him. I turned and leaned into him, nuzzling my face into his chest. He wrapped an arm around my waist, holding me. It was comforting, and, close up, he smelled like soap, a clean contrast to the leftover cooking smells of the holiday meal all around us.
After chatting with Charlene, and having a meal of our own, just me and him, and his messy man bun, at the end of a folding table, we excused ourselves and walked out into the cool, California December evening.
The stars shone brightly overhead, and we were close enough to the beach to hear the crash and roar of the waves. As we walked out to his car, Jeremy stopped suddenly.
“I’m glad we did that,” he said. “You can think things like, oh, I don’t have enough money to go home and see my parents, so Christmas is going to suck. Or you can think, I have the opportunity to feed a whole lot of people, and spend the day with an amazing girl. It’s important to remember the important things.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. For once, he was more talkative than me.
“Makes you think,” he continued and then paused. “We’re all in this together and it’s our responsibility to help each other.”
I nodded. He was absolutely right. I was going to do this again. And hopefully, with him. And his man bun. Through the course of the day, it had slipped a little, from its usual perch at the not-top, not-back, to lower on the back of his head. Rumpled golden bits escaped out the ends, poking every which way. I wanted to reach up and yank out the rubber band.
“Gretchen?” he asked.
I looked up at him.
“Can I kiss you?”
I nodded, so happy.
He leaned in and brushed his lips to mine, a sweet, sensuous kiss. He wrapped his arms around my waist and I snaked mine up to his neck. And I pulled out the hair band. His mane went free, down, all over the place, and I tangled my hands in it, slowly, in complete bliss. His hands went to my hair, equally exploring. I don’t know how long we stood in the parking lot of the beachy homeless shelter, kissing, but all I could think, was that this was a way to actually get peace on Earth.
You can read The Sun and the Moon here!