A Hair Cut in China

"Bless me, my stylist, for I have sinned. I went to someone else."

I was determined to grow my hair while traveling. I didn't want the hassle of finding a salon, finding a good stylist, finding hair product, or finding a fashionable bag to cover my head when things went wrong, as they most surely would.

But heat and humidity and acne have a way of changing even the most stubborn of minds. Throughout India I put up with the pimples on my forehead. I put up with a limp, unstyled coiff. It was just easier to let it grow, according to plan. I'd started the process 2 months before leaving. I asked for a cut that would grow out nicely and then said good bye to Arthur, my stylist, telling him we should just be friends. Hair stylists are like boyfriends. You go to someone else, and you are wracked with guilt for 'cheating on them'. It's pretty much impossible to go back to them after visiting someone else. They always know. Don't ask me how, but they know. And they will always let you know that they know.

"Who cut your hair?" They might say all nonchalant-like. In these situations, I've told them that I was drunk and let a friend do it on a dare. This seems to smooth things over. I don't mind making myself look like an ass to avoid a conflict. A nice, fat tip at the end is always good, too.

I think I have an 'out', though, being on the road for this amount of time and all. I needn't be ashamed to have my hair cut by someone else, but I do worry about the shame that comes with a random hair cut, by some random person, in an even more random country.

Back at home, I always have a stylish doo... at least I try. It's easier than keeping up with the fashion trends and a stylish hair style makes up for a boring wardrobe. That, and cool shoes. So it's been painful for me to look in the mirror lately, not liking what I see. Photos are painful to look at as well. I finally decided that my plan to grow my hair out on the road was silly and stupid and most of all, uncomfortable and unbecoming. That, along with the heat and humidity of Southern China... a climate that will dominate my future as I travel through SE Asia, incited me throw caution to the wind (if only there was a breeze) and visit a salon, here in Yangshuo.

The man, who looked more like a Chinese bowling champion than a hair stylist, looked surprised that I was asking him to cut my hair shorter than the length of his thumb nail. Many Asian men have long pinky nails -- I've been told it's for good luck, but I have my doubts... Benjamin thinks they are grown to serve as nose picking implements -- this was the first time I'd seen such a long thumb nail on a man and if you believe that first impressions are important, this was not a good one in my eyes.

When I walked into the salon, which had 'Barber Shop' in vinyl lettering on the window, I was skeptical. But it did look more like a salon than a barber shop, so I ignored the name and took a seat. I'd agreed to a wash and cut and a price that was probably double what I should pay, but I wasn't about to haggle over the price of my hair cut when my appearance was at stake.

The wash was interesting. It didn't take place at a sink, but at the chair. They do it dry -- squeezing shampoo onto the scalp, working it into a lather without the aid of water. The guy washing my hair was a fine example of how NOT to wear your hair (a red flag in a salon)... he had long, stringy, dry, broken hair from a bad dye job. Chinese are not meant to be blonde. He also had long fingernails and raked them back and forth across my scalp, washing my hair for a good 20 minutes. Benjamin wondered if he was stalling for time, trying to figure out how to deal with my short hair request. I was more concerned about the numb feeling that the skin on my scalp had assumed. I've never had dandruff, but I was sure that this man was going to give me some.

Eventually he rinsed out the lather and sat me in the chair of the Chinese bowling champion. He was wearing a polo knock-off of a shirt. Instead of a man on a horse, the emblem looked like the face of Jesus, crown of thorns and all. An appropriate image, considering the state of my sensitive scalp.

I'd shown him my passport photo. I had short hair then. I figured this was the best way to get something close to what I wanted. He took a quick peek and motioned with his hand a few times... he wanted to make sure I wanted it that short. He even asked Benjamin how he was doing as he went about his business. I believe Benjamin told him to ask me, but he never did.

In the end, it turned out alright. Thankfully, mercifully, it turned out alright. I hadn't brought a bag with me to the salon.

There is always the first time someone you know has seen your hair go from one style to another. When they don't say anything about it, I assume the worst. They have nothing good to say, so they don't say anything at all. The woman who runs the guesthouse where we're staying said nothing -- and she's the one who referred me to this particular salon in the first place. But the other night, a friend we made at a cafe in town commented on how well the hair cut suits me. He said it looks 'European'. And we all know that's a compliment...