Just a Little Off the Top

My hair has been getting longer and longer -- as it does -- and I have needed a haircut for quite some time. It's gotten so bad that I've used it for example sentences in class, especially during the "offering advice" lesson. "Ms. Scott should probably get a haircut," or, "If I were you, I'd get my hair cut."

The thing is, my hair is not the easiest to cut. It is super thick and I have finally found a style that I love. It took me years of talking to hair dressers in English before I finally managed to vocalize what I wanted out of a cut. The thought of doing that in Chinese was just too daunting. A couple of months ago, my Canadian even noticed that my hair was getting shaggy. He looked at me and realized his own hair was looking scraggy. He could just got a barber and tell them which size guard to use. Me? Not so much. 

Three weeks ago, I knew I was coming to decision time. It was falling in my face and annoying the crap out of me. And, it was long enough that I could put it into pigtails. Not great pigtails -- the back hair wasn't quite long enough to really stay in the elastics, but it did get the hair out of my face. So, I was either going to wear pigtails until I get back to Portland in July or I was going to have to get a haircut.

So I started doing some research. *The* place to go in Beijing is Tony & Guy. There is even an address for it in my taxi guide. Although another one of the women has (successfully) had two haircuts from normal hair places in this town, she has a simpler cut and easier hair. So. Tony & Guy it is.

Toni & Guy is well suited to a mobile population. When you walk in, you choose a hair dresser based on price. The more expensive the cut, the more experienced the hair dresser. And here's where I made my fatal mistake: I didn't spend enough money.

I was walked over to a chair, and something looked different. The counter was missing. The chair was pushed forward towards a mirror and there were counter "wings" on each side. 

A slim young man in trendy black came over and took my bag and my jacket. Another slim man dressed in trendy black came over along with the desk clerk (a slim woman also dressed in trendy black). I began explaining to the man what I wanted out of my haircut while the woman translated.

And then I made mistake number two: I mentioned the word "bob". Now, it's true that I do wear my hair in an A-line bob, but it's an A-line bob. That means the hair is much shorter in the back and it tapers down to much longer in the front. It didn't matter how many times, with words, hand gestures, and actual pointing to my hair, the man latched onto "bob" and wouldn't let go. 

But I didn't know that yet.

The woman strutted away. The young man came back with a key on a plastic stringy bracelet thingy. Another man came and put a white coat on me and walked me to the hair washing room. And then came what is always the best part of getting a haircut -- the head massage, er, the shampoo. 

We walk back to the chair. The slim man in black brought out a small case of tools (what?!? these are his only cutting utensils?!?! they use tool boxes in Portland) and opened it up. It was definitely awkward for him to find the scissors and combs that he needed at any given time.

It was nothing like anything I'd ever experienced. He went at my hair with tiny, mincing cuts. I hand't had my hair cut in 4 months -- and I told him that. But he didn't just cut my hair. He dabbed at it with the end of his scissors.

This blog is taking me forever to write. The haircut took forever, too. I knew I was in big trouble when he dried my hair halfway through. I thought he thought he was done -- no one ever tries to cut my hair dry. It's too frizzy and curly. When I mentioned I wanted it much shorter, he said he wasn't done. And then spent another 30 minutes cutting my hair dry.

It went really bad when he got the interpreter over again and we went over what I wanted. I want the sides short! I picked up a hunk of hair and told him to cut it. He looked scared and told me he didn't want to. He didn't think it would look good.

What?!?! Excuse me, but I believe this is MY hair. I want it cut.

We suffered through another 20 minutes in the chair. And then I told him it was great and I loved it. I was faking it. I just wanted it to end. I was tired. I was hungry. And I wanted him to stop touching my hair. He didn't quite believe me, but I was very convincing. He eventually let me leave.

With the worst haircut of my life. 

Next time, I'll pay more money. And bring photos.