Here’s a half-truth for you: Hair grows back and I’m not especially vain. Fortunately, as Ethan pointed out when we first met up in Korea, “The difference between a bad haircut and a normal haircut for men is about two weeks.”
I’ve had a handful of haircuts while travelling over the last year. Generally speaking, no one has shaved my eyebrows when I wanted my neck line cleaned up, but I still get that feeling of dread when I walk into a barbershop or salon in Asia: Unsure of the cutter's English proficiency; unsure of my phrasing and pointing expressiveness; unsure of their avant-garde tendencies. I’m referring to the haircut abyss, as Kierkegaard probably once experienced.
My most noteworthy haircut was the “checkerboard” shaved into my head in China just because I could. Perhaps we can always get stupid haircuts if we want, and don’t we grow up hearing and then repeating the adage that we shouldn't judge a book by its cover? But anyone with life experience knows that that simply isn’t true: For the sake of efficiency in discriminating what we want from what we don’t our sight is the first sense to take action. (Hopefully, we keep an open mind to revise these judgements later). Anyway, not as well-known is the addendum to the adage that goes, “But if it looks stupid, you can still laugh out loud at it, especially if it isn't looking directly at you.” The people in Asia seem to be much more familiar with that part of the adage than Americans.
The “China” haircut wasn’t that bad, until I made a bet with a traveler in Vietnam about three weeks later during trivia night, exclaiming in disbelief that “There is no fucking way Brasilia is the capital of Brazil. How would I have forgotten that?” Well apparently, there is a fucking way, and she got to shave another patch into the one area on my head missing a square – my forehead – at a way shorter length then the rest of my square patches.
Ethan’s trivia partner that night, a really sarcastic, dry, and entertaining lady from Australia (bless her damn heart), thought my haircut was hilarious. So hilarious that at the bar she kept yelling from afar, regardless of my company, “Oh my god, do you have AIDS?!” Have you ever tried to appear intriguing to the opposite sex when someone is asking if you have AIDS? It’s difficult.
After an unmemorable night and a half day on a train, Ethan and I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City around 4am, about 12 hours earlier than expected due to some shoddy maths (as the British say), and at around 7am I shaved my head bald. As a consequence, I think I got more stares than before, probably of sympathy – perhaps assuming my pale scalp was exposed as a consequence of chemotherapy.
Scarred from the self-inflicted trauma of the whole event, it’s been nearly seven months since I had a real appearance-changing haircut. That is until today. There is nothing noteworthy about the five-minute haircut I got, except that I paid a special tourist price of 10 dollars. My long flowing locks and lion-like neck mane have been cut down so that the gusts of wind won’t pick me off my feet. Before I saw the end result, the haircut abyss hovered above the mirror as I pondered the end result: How short will she cut? Did she understand that I didn't want the top cut? Gee-willikers, how is she cutting my hair without looking at my head? But all is well. I have a normal haircut. Although I might say it's a little Justin Bieber-y. My question now is, does that mean in two more weeks I’ll have a good haircut?
I’ve had a handful of haircuts while travelling over the last year. Generally speaking, no one has shaved my eyebrows when I wanted my neck line cleaned up, but I still get that feeling of dread when I walk into a barbershop or salon in Asia: Unsure of the cutter's English proficiency; unsure of my phrasing and pointing expressiveness; unsure of their avant-garde tendencies. I’m referring to the haircut abyss, as Kierkegaard probably once experienced.
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| More "soccer" than checkerboard haircut. |
The “China” haircut wasn’t that bad, until I made a bet with a traveler in Vietnam about three weeks later during trivia night, exclaiming in disbelief that “There is no fucking way Brasilia is the capital of Brazil. How would I have forgotten that?” Well apparently, there is a fucking way, and she got to shave another patch into the one area on my head missing a square – my forehead – at a way shorter length then the rest of my square patches.
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| The look of a man who doesn't know the capital of Brazil is Brasilia. |
After an unmemorable night and a half day on a train, Ethan and I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City around 4am, about 12 hours earlier than expected due to some shoddy maths (as the British say), and at around 7am I shaved my head bald. As a consequence, I think I got more stares than before, probably of sympathy – perhaps assuming my pale scalp was exposed as a consequence of chemotherapy.
Scarred from the self-inflicted trauma of the whole event, it’s been nearly seven months since I had a real appearance-changing haircut. That is until today. There is nothing noteworthy about the five-minute haircut I got, except that I paid a special tourist price of 10 dollars. My long flowing locks and lion-like neck mane have been cut down so that the gusts of wind won’t pick me off my feet. Before I saw the end result, the haircut abyss hovered above the mirror as I pondered the end result: How short will she cut? Did she understand that I didn't want the top cut? Gee-willikers, how is she cutting my hair without looking at my head? But all is well. I have a normal haircut. Although I might say it's a little Justin Bieber-y. My question now is, does that mean in two more weeks I’ll have a good haircut?
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