So, last week, our air conditioner went out. It was a beautiful, wonderful, sacred time in our house in our hot as Haiti apartment. Actually, hotter than Haiti, 'cause I've been there. Just saying.
Anyways, it was hecka hot and one of my very least favorite things to do in the hecka heat, is to shower and then get ready, while my wet hair is dripping down my back, and my drying off with a towel is futile because sweat quickly replaces my shower water. It's a recipe for a panic attack/heat stroke in my life. So naturally, I decided to go to a salon and pay someone to wash my hair for me, hence avoiding all the panic attacks/heat strokes. Naturally.
So, I went to get my hair washed and if you've ever been to China, you may have heard about the fantastic hair washes they give. I've heard foreigners rave about them & how head, massagey good it is. I was pretty psyched.
I get there, to a room full of smoking, skinny jeaned boys, okay, young men, with their hair all whipped to the side, ready for my head massage/shampoo. It looked like a salon full of Chinese boy bands.
"So you wanna a head rub? How 'bout a trim gurrl?"
I go back to the sink and ask for a brush to brush out my 2 foot, curly, non-showered, tangled hair. I always do this first for hair stylists. They always seem quite overwhelmed by it & terrified to, God-forbid, break a hair. I just like to help them out, prevent the horror. My skinny jeaned stylist brings me something that looks like this.
Except worse. Because it was round, and the hair was all stuck in there, and there wasn't some pretty lady with long black hair holding it, then you would have at least known where the hair was coming from. No, this brush's hair collection, was probably from days or weeks of several different heads.
So, like the brave, when-in-rome, expat I am, I used it. I know! Sick right?! But I mean, I was about to get my hair shampooed, so it's cool. Right?! {It's been a week and my head's not itching... so either these babies are about to hatch, or I'm in the clear! ;) }
So after I brush out my goodness of a rats nest, with everyone else's hair brush, we began the shampoo.
Which was.... uneventful and not all what everyone talked it up to be. Maybe I got the wrong kind of shampoo. I don't know.
I then, somehow, brilliantly decided it would be a great idea to get my hair trimmed for the first time in a year and a half, at this highly sterile, professional salon.
I told them very carefully, with my fingers of course, that I wanted half an inch trimmed. Not layered. Straight across. Only a half inch. I even put it in my cell phone translator. My guy seemed very aware of what I wanted and affirmed me several times that he knew.
Oh. Smiley girl. You have no idea.
He started to cut.
In Chinese & lots of hand motions-
Me: Again, I only want half an inch.
Overly enthused stylist: I know! I know! Trust me! I know!
...keeps cutting
Me: I don't want layers because my hair is curly. It doesn't work. You can't do it.
Him: I know! Okay! I know.
Then the guy standing next to him hands me his cell phone which has translated in it,
"He wants give you hair heiarchy." Heiarchy? What the? Layers!? He means layers!
Me: I don't want layers! My hair is curly. You can't. I don't want. {in broken Chinese}
Him: No! No! No! (to the other guy) I know! I know! (to me)
I was feeling pretty good at this point. Like, ya. This guy, he's got me.
Until he got to the front of my hair and I noticed a good 5 inch difference between the back, which he had cut, and my front, where he showed me very dramatically that he couldn't get the brush through the last 5 inches of my hair.
Me: I know! I don't care. I only want half an inch.
(I was still holding out. Thinking maybe, just maybe, I was mistaken about the back being so short.)
Him: I know! I know! Half an inch! I know!
Turns out, he didn't know! Or did. but could care less what I said. He cut off a good 5 inches.
Reader Note: Please don't say how it's not that short or you don't notice a difference and completely devoid my story. ;) I will however except Looks amazing! Wow! Stunning! Anything that boosts my hair ego and ends in an explanation mark. ;)
The best part was after, when he got to blow dry my hair. He was super excited and used a contraption on the hair dryer he probably never gets to use, because my hair is curly. He dramitacally blow dryed the back, moving his hands all around like a composer, and then the front. And then with the front almost dry, he gave a huge, hands in the air, "wa la!." He was super proud of himself.
I couldn't bare bursting his ego. It was like a child, really. And I'm just not that mean. Even though he chopped my hair off and didn't listen to me. {My hair feels way healthier now! I'll give that little hair composer that.}
Alas, I've traded in my long, hippie locks for a short, cute, somewhat longer than a bob look. Okay. It's longer than a bob but it literally feels as short as a bob to me. That's all.
Moral of the story. Don't get your hair cut in China.
The End.
