When you have one unusual haircut experience, you shake it off as part of living overseas. When you have another, well, that’s a blog entry. Let’s go back to China. Walk down any side street in Shekou and numerous salons await you. Greeted by a very metrosexual stylist who has hair bigger than a beehive do in the 50s (and probably with a pink streak in there somewhere), you were escorted into the parlor of your choice. But this isn’t your typical shop.
Hair is everywhere. Sweeping up isn’t a priory and a day’s worth of shedding coats the floor. Smoke fills the air as both employees and customers puff away during the procedure. You are asked, most likely, what you would like, but you don’t understand a word so you just point stupidly to your hair and they point mockingly to a chair. Once seated, a ballad of charades gets the work started, yet the questions in Chinese continue as if they think somehow you would suddenly snap out of your monolingual ignorance.
So how do they cut hair in China? A regular trim up the sides starts you off, but when they cut the top, that’s where it gets weird. A pair of scissors that look like two combs that clip together is randomly and aggressively passed through your hair. In short, I believe these layer the hair and give it definition. In reality, by the time it grows out, your head looks like it was last trimmed with a kitchen blender. Next, out comes the straight razor, and you know how human life is valued in China. So is that razor, new, sharp, or sanitized in anyway? Of course not. Rust lines the edge of the blade which is scrapped mercilessly around your hairline as you pray that you aren’t slit Godfather-style and that your tetanus shot is up-to-date.
Now, the winner, and I am not joking that this happened. The guy finishes my hair and then asks me something. I nod stupidly again because I have found it is the only response when you are asked a question and have no idea what they are saying. But in this case, it wasn’t, “Are you pleased with your haircut?” He walks over to a large curtain and pulls it back to reveal a semi-passed out woman, scantily clad, laying on a cot. She looks 10min from her last heroin blast. A sexually explicit gesture breaks down the language barrier like a tank and there is no longer any confusion on my part about what he asked me. Now, it is the middle of the day and I am married. Not that these are the most immediate problems with the situation in front of me. There is literally a curtain separating this service from the rest of the shop, and I don’t want whatever I am going to contract in the long run from this encounter. I pay my $2 US (for the haircut only) and bolt out of there.
It isn’t just the massage service that ends this way.
South Africa
Barber shops aren’t as plentiful here as China, so when I saw one I made a mental note to go back to get the mop chopped. When I strolled in, three Middle Eastern men were staring at the ceiling. I immediately looked up and seeing nothing, could only assume they were bored. When they saw me they jumped up and rushed over. My cashmere sweater was carefully hung and a woman came by to offer me coffee or tea. The next few minutes were haircut as usual. Out comes the straight razor, a new blade is put on and he starts shaving my hairline only in the up direction. It felt weird but came off without a hitch. So far, status quo in the hair department.
Then the guy stops, eyes me up and down, and asks, “Is this your first time with us?” I nod that it is and he wanders off, returning with what looks like a spool of thread. He bites a bit of it, twirls it around and comes in close. I swear I am about to get a tooth flossing and although this seems odd for a barber shop, hey, I am in a different country, a different hemisphere even. Then he zips the thread, which is more like fishing line, and starts zipping the hairs around my eyebrows clean off. It hurts like a mo-fo! The fuzz on my forehead, between the eyes, on top and even in my ears, all ripped away with a flick of the fingers. I want to yell out but I can’t give my torturer the satisfaction. When it stops, I am ready to tell him all my secrets but he walks off, clearly not interested in national security. Every facial feature from the neck up is beet red and burns like someone sprinkled cayenne pepper on a blistering sunburn. I pray for death.
But it isn’t over. He returns with a Q-tip dipped in wax. This isn’t going to end well for me. He blows on it to cool it to a mere singe then crams it in my nose. Hardly loving that someone just blew on something that went in a mucus membrane of mine, I sat and waited till he filled my other nostril with green goop. Off he sits in the corner, bouncing his leg and humming a tune. I look at myself in the mirror, see a red walrus staring back, and look over to the guy, curious if this is all just a joke for his benefit. It isn’t. He rises, walks over, grabs the tip and yanks. Blood rushes to my face (again) and tears fill my eyes. I try to glance at the cotton swab he is holding in front of my face like a hunting trophy, but my vision is blurred. Knowing what is coming, I brace for the second nostril raping, but it is worse than the first. At least 30 of my nose hairs are perfectly removed on a chuck of wax.
I pay my money, get suggestions on shaving so as not to ruin my sideburns, and leave, a little pissed that I paid, then tipped, for getting my ass kicked. As I limped to the car a broken man, my finger picked green boogers from my nose. The next morning after my run, a little blood still trickled from my nostril.
My suggestion: Do it yourself.
Hair is everywhere. Sweeping up isn’t a priory and a day’s worth of shedding coats the floor. Smoke fills the air as both employees and customers puff away during the procedure. You are asked, most likely, what you would like, but you don’t understand a word so you just point stupidly to your hair and they point mockingly to a chair. Once seated, a ballad of charades gets the work started, yet the questions in Chinese continue as if they think somehow you would suddenly snap out of your monolingual ignorance.
So how do they cut hair in China? A regular trim up the sides starts you off, but when they cut the top, that’s where it gets weird. A pair of scissors that look like two combs that clip together is randomly and aggressively passed through your hair. In short, I believe these layer the hair and give it definition. In reality, by the time it grows out, your head looks like it was last trimmed with a kitchen blender. Next, out comes the straight razor, and you know how human life is valued in China. So is that razor, new, sharp, or sanitized in anyway? Of course not. Rust lines the edge of the blade which is scrapped mercilessly around your hairline as you pray that you aren’t slit Godfather-style and that your tetanus shot is up-to-date.
Now, the winner, and I am not joking that this happened. The guy finishes my hair and then asks me something. I nod stupidly again because I have found it is the only response when you are asked a question and have no idea what they are saying. But in this case, it wasn’t, “Are you pleased with your haircut?” He walks over to a large curtain and pulls it back to reveal a semi-passed out woman, scantily clad, laying on a cot. She looks 10min from her last heroin blast. A sexually explicit gesture breaks down the language barrier like a tank and there is no longer any confusion on my part about what he asked me. Now, it is the middle of the day and I am married. Not that these are the most immediate problems with the situation in front of me. There is literally a curtain separating this service from the rest of the shop, and I don’t want whatever I am going to contract in the long run from this encounter. I pay my $2 US (for the haircut only) and bolt out of there.
It isn’t just the massage service that ends this way.
South Africa
Barber shops aren’t as plentiful here as China, so when I saw one I made a mental note to go back to get the mop chopped. When I strolled in, three Middle Eastern men were staring at the ceiling. I immediately looked up and seeing nothing, could only assume they were bored. When they saw me they jumped up and rushed over. My cashmere sweater was carefully hung and a woman came by to offer me coffee or tea. The next few minutes were haircut as usual. Out comes the straight razor, a new blade is put on and he starts shaving my hairline only in the up direction. It felt weird but came off without a hitch. So far, status quo in the hair department.
Then the guy stops, eyes me up and down, and asks, “Is this your first time with us?” I nod that it is and he wanders off, returning with what looks like a spool of thread. He bites a bit of it, twirls it around and comes in close. I swear I am about to get a tooth flossing and although this seems odd for a barber shop, hey, I am in a different country, a different hemisphere even. Then he zips the thread, which is more like fishing line, and starts zipping the hairs around my eyebrows clean off. It hurts like a mo-fo! The fuzz on my forehead, between the eyes, on top and even in my ears, all ripped away with a flick of the fingers. I want to yell out but I can’t give my torturer the satisfaction. When it stops, I am ready to tell him all my secrets but he walks off, clearly not interested in national security. Every facial feature from the neck up is beet red and burns like someone sprinkled cayenne pepper on a blistering sunburn. I pray for death.
But it isn’t over. He returns with a Q-tip dipped in wax. This isn’t going to end well for me. He blows on it to cool it to a mere singe then crams it in my nose. Hardly loving that someone just blew on something that went in a mucus membrane of mine, I sat and waited till he filled my other nostril with green goop. Off he sits in the corner, bouncing his leg and humming a tune. I look at myself in the mirror, see a red walrus staring back, and look over to the guy, curious if this is all just a joke for his benefit. It isn’t. He rises, walks over, grabs the tip and yanks. Blood rushes to my face (again) and tears fill my eyes. I try to glance at the cotton swab he is holding in front of my face like a hunting trophy, but my vision is blurred. Knowing what is coming, I brace for the second nostril raping, but it is worse than the first. At least 30 of my nose hairs are perfectly removed on a chuck of wax.
I pay my money, get suggestions on shaving so as not to ruin my sideburns, and leave, a little pissed that I paid, then tipped, for getting my ass kicked. As I limped to the car a broken man, my finger picked green boogers from my nose. The next morning after my run, a little blood still trickled from my nostril.
My suggestion: Do it yourself.
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