In Which the Stylist Almost Has an Aneurysm

One solution to this belligerent insistence hair has on, you know, growing is baldness. I wondered if that's what the stylist was thinking, too, because it had been 15 minutes and he was still back there combing, combing, combing with shaking hands. He could comb me bald and I'd never traumatize him again.

It seemed like such a simple thing, getting a trim. My hair was a little shaggy, I had some wayward split ends and I'd solemnly vowed to several people that I would stop cutting my own hair. So, I'd have someone else do it! No big deal! Twenty minutes, in and out!

China, as usual, found my notions to be charming and laughably quaint.

There's a salon near my apartment -- next to the store where I don't buy Oreos every single day, even though I want to -- and it seemed like a nice, friendly place to get a haircut. I spent half an hour writing the appropriate speech: I'd like a haircut, please. Please cut 3 - 4 centimeters. I like this style I have now, with the layers.

Striding confidently into the salon, I smiled winningly and declared, "Qing, wo yao yi ge lifa (Please, I want a haircut)." The lady nodded. Then it went precipitously downhill, as usual: "Qing... uh, qing (frantic scissor motion with my fingers, jabbing choppily at the lock of hair I was grasping)..." Finally, after repeated spasms of pidgin Chinese, I just handed her the paper with my speech. She read and the corner of her mouth trembled. What had been the straight line of her mouth began dancing like a sound wave.

Then it was an open grin. She called to the other stylists, what I assume was the Chinese version of "Y'all! C'mere and git a load of this!" They passed my paper around like it was a mash note, pointing out the particularly juicy bits to each other. Haw haw, lookee there.

So, I was feeling a little defensive. Just cut my hair, OK?

But they meant no harm, and a small crowd of stylists and other customers led me to a chair. From the crowd, one stylist emerged. A black utility belt was wrapped around his waist, from which protruded various scissors and combs. He wore an expression of determination mingled with terror.

At this point, it's important to remember two things about getting a haircut at the salon near my apartment:

1. Foreigners are very rare in Korla.

2. Chinese hair is extremely textured and uniformly black. It's gorgeous -- a rich onyx that catches and holds light -- but very different from my own disobedient, medium brown hair.

Through charades, we determined how much I wanted cut (thumb and forefinger held 4 centimeters apart) and that I wanted layers (flat hand chopping up my hair). He read my note again, just in case. He adjusted his shirt. He flexed his fingers. He smiled weakly at the other stylists who were hovering nearby. And then he began combing.

And kept combing. Combing, combing, combing in long, even strokes. He adjusted his shirt again and squared his shoulders. And combed, combed, combed. Deep breath. Comb, comb, comb. He got a stool so he could sit behind me. Comb, comb, comb. He pulled a pair of scissors from his belt and combed some more. Then he decided those scissors would never do, which called for more combing. Different scissors! Comb, comb, comb. He clipped portions of my hair up, then combed the hair beneath.

Comb, comb, comb. Comb. Comb... comb.

Finally, with the delicacy of Indiana Jones exchanging a golden idol for a bag of sand, he raised the scissors to my hair.

Snip. Snip... snip.

I could feel my hair growing back between snips. He trembled onward, growing almost imperceptibly more confident with each cut. The photos probably helped.

As he cut, other stylists approached with their cell phone cameras. At first, they stood at a distance, recording their Brave Comrade in his Valiant Dealings with Caucasian hair. He was a hero. He was a rock star. They inched closer, standing to my side, venturing in front of me, snapping pictures with every snip of the scissors.

Then I cut my eyes to the left and saw another face beside my ear. Photo opportunity! Hi, mom! The stylist grinned and flashed the peace sign while her co-worker took her picture. My haircut: fun for everyone.

And the man cutting my hair braved resolutely onward. My bangs, with their impossible cowlicks, caused him particular pangs. Cutting a molecule at a time, then stopping between times for some soothing combing, he sighed and fretted. I wanted to tell him, "You're doing awesome!" And I wanted to tell him, "Dude, don't worry. No matter what happens, it'll grow back." But all I could do was grin like a lunatic and declare, "Hen hao! Wo hen kuaile! (Very good! I'm very happy!)" He smiled wanly and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his cuff.

Anyway, he worried for nothing. Two hours later and I had a great haircut. As he whipped the cape from around my shoulders, several other stylists applauded, like he was a chef who'd just set the baked Alaska on fire. Ta da!

They all saw me to the door, and I don't know whether I made his day or ruined it when I said I'd see him next time.