Hello all, hope home is treating you well and you're living comfortably. Life in Changchun keeps on rolling - cars honk their horns, shops play terrible music out their storefronts and people on the streets still give me odd glances. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Before I left for Changchun, Papa Pete and I got out the dog shavers and played a game of double dog dare - if you shave your head first, I'll shave mine after. Needless to say, we both ended up losing and 9 Highland Park looked like a clan rally for the next couple days. I really enjoyed having next to no hair, though. It was remarkably easy and I saved money on shampoo.
Up until two weeks ago, I had yet to get my hair cut. My shaved head had grown in well and I was reluctant to play the charade game with a Chinese hairdresser and wind up with the Mao special. Unfortunately, the time came when my hair was obstructing my vision when playing football and needed to get sorted.
Those of you who know me well, know that I hate getting my haircut (the infamous two-person haircut of '09 being the exception - you know who you are and why). For some reason, I've never been able to speak hairdresser and I've never had a cut that I liked right away. Now that I had to get my hair cut by a haircutter with no English, I was a little worried.
I wandered into a shop close to where I lived that had the universal, spinning, red and white barber stripe and I took a seat feeling apprehensive. Immediately, everyone turned and looked my way with hushed whispers and stifled giggles. Living in Changchun, you get used to this treatment, so I tried to look cool and not notice. The person behind the desk waved me over and everyone laughed a little more. I thought everyone sitting around were customers waiting for a seat in the electric chair, but it turns out they were all employees, each responsible for who knows what. I walked up to the counter and said "I want" in Chinese and motioned scissor-hands cutting my hair. The girl got it and pointed to the back of the shop. Before I left, she asked me if I was an American and I replied, "No, I am Canadian." She smiled and told the haircut crew and they all laughed and the mood was a lot lighter. The number of times being a Canadian has saved me on the road, I can not count.
I headed to the back of the shop. The further back I went, the closer the walls got, the bigger the piles of boxes became and the darker the lights dimmed. I felt like I was being taken into initiation for a Chinese gang, walking down the hallway to some back office where the boss would decide if I had what it takes. I reached the end of the hallway and there were two washing stations, complete with cushioned seat, container and shower head - just like they have them back home. I was OK. I would meet the Chinese gangster another day.
A beautiful Chinese girl swept me off my feet and into the chair. She got my hair a little wet and gave me a shampoo avec massage. How much is this? I thought. Can I get one of these every morning? Depending on how well this cut goes, I'll come back every week.
It was over too soon and I was sent back down the creepy hallway to the electric chair. A guy with hair like a rooster sat me down and (what I think) asked me what I wanted. Not like yours, I thought, but noticed another cutter reading a newspaper with a simple buzz cut and I asked for the same. Unfortunately, I pointed at the guy and pointing in China is a no-no. The guy got all upset and was heading to the back, when I stopped him and motioned the same haircut. He laughed, I laughed, the whole shop laughed and I sat back down.
Rooster hair went straight for the shaver. This is it, I thought. Speak now or for the next two weeks look like Lieutenant Dan. I said nothing. I closed my eyes and let him do his thing. A short time later it was over. I checked the mirror - not bad. I checked out the back - not bad at all. Perhaps the best cut I've ever had. I stood up, said my thanks in Chinese, and paid at the front. 15 kuay - cheapest cut I've ever had.
Before I left for Changchun, Papa Pete and I got out the dog shavers and played a game of double dog dare - if you shave your head first, I'll shave mine after. Needless to say, we both ended up losing and 9 Highland Park looked like a clan rally for the next couple days. I really enjoyed having next to no hair, though. It was remarkably easy and I saved money on shampoo.
Up until two weeks ago, I had yet to get my hair cut. My shaved head had grown in well and I was reluctant to play the charade game with a Chinese hairdresser and wind up with the Mao special. Unfortunately, the time came when my hair was obstructing my vision when playing football and needed to get sorted.
Those of you who know me well, know that I hate getting my haircut (the infamous two-person haircut of '09 being the exception - you know who you are and why). For some reason, I've never been able to speak hairdresser and I've never had a cut that I liked right away. Now that I had to get my hair cut by a haircutter with no English, I was a little worried.
I wandered into a shop close to where I lived that had the universal, spinning, red and white barber stripe and I took a seat feeling apprehensive. Immediately, everyone turned and looked my way with hushed whispers and stifled giggles. Living in Changchun, you get used to this treatment, so I tried to look cool and not notice. The person behind the desk waved me over and everyone laughed a little more. I thought everyone sitting around were customers waiting for a seat in the electric chair, but it turns out they were all employees, each responsible for who knows what. I walked up to the counter and said "I want" in Chinese and motioned scissor-hands cutting my hair. The girl got it and pointed to the back of the shop. Before I left, she asked me if I was an American and I replied, "No, I am Canadian." She smiled and told the haircut crew and they all laughed and the mood was a lot lighter. The number of times being a Canadian has saved me on the road, I can not count.
I headed to the back of the shop. The further back I went, the closer the walls got, the bigger the piles of boxes became and the darker the lights dimmed. I felt like I was being taken into initiation for a Chinese gang, walking down the hallway to some back office where the boss would decide if I had what it takes. I reached the end of the hallway and there were two washing stations, complete with cushioned seat, container and shower head - just like they have them back home. I was OK. I would meet the Chinese gangster another day.
A beautiful Chinese girl swept me off my feet and into the chair. She got my hair a little wet and gave me a shampoo avec massage. How much is this? I thought. Can I get one of these every morning? Depending on how well this cut goes, I'll come back every week.
It was over too soon and I was sent back down the creepy hallway to the electric chair. A guy with hair like a rooster sat me down and (what I think) asked me what I wanted. Not like yours, I thought, but noticed another cutter reading a newspaper with a simple buzz cut and I asked for the same. Unfortunately, I pointed at the guy and pointing in China is a no-no. The guy got all upset and was heading to the back, when I stopped him and motioned the same haircut. He laughed, I laughed, the whole shop laughed and I sat back down.
Rooster hair went straight for the shaver. This is it, I thought. Speak now or for the next two weeks look like Lieutenant Dan. I said nothing. I closed my eyes and let him do his thing. A short time later it was over. I checked the mirror - not bad. I checked out the back - not bad at all. Perhaps the best cut I've ever had. I stood up, said my thanks in Chinese, and paid at the front. 15 kuay - cheapest cut I've ever had.