#1 Funny Thing That Happened in China
#1 The Hair Cuts
One of the things you may have noticed about me from my pictures or knowing me is that I like to keep my hair short. It’s not that I’m bald, I just don’t want to “do a comb-over”. Additional benefits include using at least 10 minutes a day more usefully than most people (neither having to shampoo or comb a mangy mop of hair) and saving at least $100 per year by using my own set of clippers for my haircuts. It even makes me look tougher because people think I might have been in the military at one time. :) As you can tell, I’ve spent quite a bit of time rationalizing my almost hairless pate.
A problem arises, though, when I am away from home for more than a couple weeks, because the hair grows out and I feel like I’m wearing a fro that Bill Walton would have been proud of in the 70s. After two weeks, the two dozen hairs that I still have near the top of my forehead sprout up like lonely strands of grass in a drought-ridden field and I feel an immediate need to buzz them off. The problem is that I have decided not to carry around two more pounds of weight in my backpack by bringing my clippers along on any of the trips (you’d be surprised how weight adds up and how carrying around 50 pounds in a backpack can quickly wear you down). So, in each country I’ve had to find a place to get my hair cut while overseas.
In India, I found a barber to do it for 30 rupees (about 75 cents). Unfortunately, the power was out at the time, so I tried to convince him to let me borrow the clippers so that I could bring them back to my hotel, buzz my hair, and bring them back in no time flat. Something, however, got lost in translation, so he started walking with me to the hotel. Apparently, he was willing to do a haircut house call, especially since his power was out. On the way, he doubled his price, which I thought was only fair for the extra trip (plus the fact that another barber had quoted me 100 rupees, so I was still getting quite a deal). After making short work of my long mane, he left me to sweep up the bountiful remnants off of my hotel room floor.
In Israel, as with everything else, finding a barber was even easier, and a lot more expensive. This time, I was in the Old City of Jerusalem, and I decided to ask a local Arab to do his magic. When I asked him the price before getting started, he said “As you wish”. Pressing him a number of times to mention a price, he refused, and went on to explain that I could give him one shekel (less than 20 cents) or 100 shekels; payment would be “as you wish”. As he buzzed along, I could tell that he was a professional. When he brought out the straight knife, I am a bit ashamed to say that I tensed up slightly, but of course with no good reason. Straightening my sideburns and cleaning up the stray hairs on the back of my neck, he was done in no time. If I recall, I paid him 40 shekels… as I wished.
So it came to China. I had to find a place, and as I walked down the street in Beijing I stopped in one hip looking salon to ask how much a haircut would be. A young guy with a full head of hair dyed, combed, and styled just enough so that it looked like he just rolled out of bed said 30 yuan ($4.50). Not bad, I thought, but moved on to see what another said. The next salon had a darker and edgier style, but quoted me the same price. As I moved toward the door, the price dropped to 20 yuan ($3), so I stepped back in.
The guy who was to work on me had a long black mane of hair that reminded me of Flock of Seagulls (an 80s band), and had his button down black shirt buttoned only with the middle two buttons, exposing his fake diamond belly button ring. As he looked around for the right attachment for the buzzers, I tried to explain that I didn’t need any attachment. The clippers along would suffice.
As he started to cut, he used the comb in a very professional way to try to feather my hair up away from my ear. Stopping him once again, I explained that all I needed was a straightforward buzz - get rid of it all. In shock and dismay, he replied in surprisingly good English, “Why?! Don’t you like hair?”.
I said, “Sure I like hair, I’m just not that good at growing it.”
Unsure of the meaning of my joke, he went back to work with abandon. He buzzed and scraped diligently, making sure that no strand of hair stood uncut. He, too, was a professional who took pride in his work. After attacking my fro with willful abandon, he brought out the straight knife like his Arab counterpart to straighten my sideburns and rid my neck of unwanted stragglers (I can only assume that the Indian barber had forgotten his blade in his shop). Surveying the battlefield with a pride of a victorious commander, he wiped down my head and neck with a towel and took off the cover that had protected my clothing from the tiny follicle refugees that had been expunged from my head. After a quick picture with him, I paid the 20 yuan and gave a 10 yuan tip.
Each haircut revealed a little bit about the culture I was in and the people who took pride in their work. And I felt normal all over again.
