I am forever searching for the passage to India—the one of the mind, constantly probing the rivers and streams, sifting through estuaries, channels, harbors, inlets, becalmed, stormed tossed, triumphant, sailing misty, porpoise leaping, purple-dark interior seas, looking for wisdom, knowledge, connection, mystery. My mythic quest leads me out and into the world everyday, trying to connect the dots, uncover a truth, reverse-engineer logic, to gawk, to gaze, to gape, to penetrate my cognitive bias in order to relearn once again how to see. I wander far and wide storing up impressions as a camel stores water for some dry day ahead. I can lose myself in the way the sun transforms dirty sidewalk tiles into a thing of beauty, get spooked at my sudden appearance in a surprise bit of mirrored glass, stop dead in my tracks to watch an unfolding photograph. I startle easily, and always give a laugh to those who take delight in intentionally rattling foreigners. Most of the people in my Lanzhou neighborhood have gotten used to me—and my strange ways, and treat me like a harmless and well-meaning barbarian. The shopkeepers now dote and fuss over me, after having gotten over their initial shock of seeing a laowai stumbling into their place of business. They are kind and treat me honestly, and I am indebted to them. Yet, I have seen and still see the pained, smiling grimace on the faces of employees of stores and restaurants whenever I walk into a new place, a stunned look of suppressed horror, usually covered up with nervous giggles, and it took me a while to understand why. They are basically terrified. Their experience in dealing with foreigners is nonexistent and usually goes something like this: they can’t understand what you are saying, they won’t be able to give you what you want, you will be persistent and try to explain with sad mimes or pen and pad srcribblings, yet this will only compound their confusion, they will giggle even more because they are uncomfortable and don't know how to respond, you will get annoyed thinking they are laughing at you, maybe even raise your voice, swear, walk out in a huff, people will notice, face will be lost, their boss maybe will yell at them, their coworkers will tease them, and even if everything goes well, they will be constantly on guard for any change in your attitude, pretending nonchalance but energetically watching in stereo and under great stress all the while you are in their establishment. For this reason, for some, it’s better that you didn’t come in at all. My first haircut in China was as stressful for me as it was for everyone who worked there. I walked in and everyone froze. Nervous giggles. I almost walked back out, but took a deep breath and approached one of the men I had seen cutting hair. I mimed what I wanted, but he just stared at me, rapidly blinking his eyes. Everyone else in the shop was looking back and forth from him to me, swiveling their heads in expectant tension.
Stalemate. It was time to do something unexpected. I pulled out a pad and pen and drew a wild caricature of me, bulging eyes and extra long neck, carefully penning in the haircut I hoped I would be getting. Then I ripped it out of the pad, held it facing the mirror, and mimed cutting my own hair, gathering it up and clipping it as I had drawn it in the picture. It worked. Everyone laughed. I was led to a locker where I could temporarily store my belongings, given a key I could attach to my wrist, and ushered into a pink robe to protect my clothes. Then it was time to wash my hair. The woman was visibly nervous. I tried to smile and put her at ease. I sat and lowered my head into the sink that had a notch for my neck like a guillotine. Though having your hair shampooed by someone else is always pleasant, she was so panicked she almost drowned me, and I ended up with water down my neck and a wet spot all down the front of my robe. She frantically tried to dry me off and then disappeared, never to be seen again during my visit. I was led to the chair, wrapped with a barber’s priest collar, and the cutting began. I like to think that I’m not overly vain—just enough to take myself seriously, but I was very worried that I might come out of this experience looking as if I was wearing a hedgehog on my head. I tried not to stare at him cutting my hair, but everywhere else I looked in the mirror all I could see were the reflections of the other employees and customers all watching as if they were villagers whose livelihood depended on selling their coffee and I was the coffee buyer. I was carefully snipped, razored, led again to the guillotine sink for a rinse, then, blow-dried senseless. All in all an unexpectedly pleasant experience that only cost 20 RMB (approx. USD $3.16). I still had the same old mug, but at least my hair looked good. I started off this diary post intending to work a different theme entirely, but veered off the highway, through the guardrail, tumbled down the hillside, ending up, upside down and babbling about my first haircut in China. I’m laughing at me, not with me. We are all recycled brilliance. It is now midnight in the garden of my truncated thoughts, under fat Chinese clouds moving steadily eastward.
2 Comments
andym
10/17/2012 11:22:12 pm
Hola Mike! Am following your every word; I always thought you needed a good haircut and it is unfortunate that you had to travel such a distance to get your first quality cut.... (smile)
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Sparky
11/9/2012 10:02:17 am
Love the jog the story took. I am pleased to know people weren't frightened of you because you were way over do for a haircut!
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