Thursday, July 03, 2008


Busy day yesterday. Between the afternoon and the evening things, I finally got my hair cut again. The last time I went to the barber1 it only took three minutes to buzz my hair off--minutes costing me about one dollar each. I've never gotten the impression this is because my haircut is so easy; the laminated menu I'm handed by the usherettes has only the one price for haircuts. This is why I'm often asked what other valuable services I'll want--I assume they range from massages to pedicures, light snacks and dark coffee. I never order any of that. Yesterday, my stylist was an earnest youth who seemed dubious once he finally understood exactly what I wanted him to do. It's the exact opposite of the sentiment above. He couldn't believe I wanted something so simple for the very same price as real haircuts. He never did accept it. While I sat there he first trimmed my hair with scissors, then cut what was left with electric clippers. He seemed very concerned about the area around my ears, digging in with the vibrating things. Not the best pair: I became intimately acquainted with their faltering whine and electrical smell. I was surprised I wasn't nervous about this. No, I didn't get nervous until one of the bored usherettes delivered the straight razor* to my station; he wanted to shave stuff: my neck, the ear area, more. How do I tell a Vietnamese barber that I'm just going to shave these finely shaped sideburns off when I get home? Then back to the ears. I left that chair forty-eight minutes after sitting down, just three dollars poorer. I look like I'm recovering from some catastrophic headphone accident but my sideburns looked really hot for half an hour. [Cavin]

Then, a 1 sided conversation ensued...

To which Blogger Mr. Cavin added:

* You know, I got shaved with a straight razor pretty frequently in Turkey, so I kind of take these things in stride. What was a little nonplussing was that the blade of the razor she set before me was just as mottled and reddish-brown as the tortoiseshell handle. No worries, he got a really clean one when he actually began to shave me: the kind that holds ultra-sharp antiseptic disposable straight razor blades. I think the usherette just dropped it there to scare me. They all peek at me here and there in the mirrors lining the place; it's easy to imagine them making a little fun. I'm telling you, those women are really bored.

Sunday, July 06, 2008 10:35:00 PM  

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