Abrupt Massages - Or - Haircuts in China

So I had my first Chinese haircut today. Damn. In earlier days, the experience might have been commemorated with an opera, or an epic play by some balding Greek. Today, however, it was captured by my devoted chronographer, who videotaped and immortalised the event with plenty of photographs, some of which I’m sure you’ll see shortly.

It began, as most things do, with an innocent trip to the mall to buy some mittens. During a fateful lapse in judgement concerning where to proceed next in our search for hand garments, I noted the smell of shampoo and fresh cut hair—much as one subtly notices mown lawn on a summer’s morning. My hair needed cutting, and after assurances that the procedure would cost only 28 yuan (exactly $4.00), I determined it was probably safe to proceed. The improbable presentation of this dubious opportunity seems good evidence for a wry God.

We entered a spacious room equipped with alien technology, possibly for branding or psychic manipulation, and were escorted to some chairs by some shrubbery. I explained through our interpreter that I needed a simple “trim”, which through the bizarre prism that our plain English is decoded, translated to something much more elaborate. My coat and belongings were whisked away to a magical cupboard. Would I see them again? I wondered as I was led gently, but insistently, away.

I was then taken by the hand by a petite red head in delicately applied makeup, as by practise of many years. It should be understand that this was a man. I followed this lithe pixie into a darkened anteroom, adorned with long, supple beds of black leather. I was initially concerned for my prospects, but I noticed what appeared to be a sink at the head of each bed, and discerned something familiar in its purpose. I was not disappointed, as a plume of warm water subdued my mangy locks. I promised them, with as much vigour as I could muster, that this was entirely unnecessary—I had just washed my hair a few hours before. It was no use, they were single minded in their determination. I relented, and succumbed to a thorough washing.

My head was lathered with what smelt strongly of green tea, and then to my surprise, the water was shut off. No rinse had occurred. As tiny man fingers began to kneed my scalp, I assumed merely that this man, diligently earning his six yuan an hour, was merely performing his duties. But as his fingers worked deeper and deeper into my flesh, and the minutes began to roll by, I wondered at his true purpose. Careful application of pressure to points in my brain seemed, to me, superfluous at best where the art of hair cutting is concerned. Yet my interpreter explained that this was part of the process, and that I should just 'relax'. I inquired what process she meant, for clearly there was no hair cutting involved. But she was called away suddenly on some errand, and I never discovered the answer.

Meanwhile, this nimble fingered minx worked ancient Oriental magic into places beyond my comprehension, and I was about to object when he suddenly began pounding on my skull. He would take two or three fingers, then bash them against my head with his other hand. My initial response was that he must be sounding my skull, divining secrets and fathoming imperfections which must be useful when my hair was eventually, theoretically cut. This was followed by a treatment that resembled kneading bread dough—which, when applied to your head, is entirely disorienting.

This bizarre epilogue was extended over the course of half an hour, by the end of which I wasn’t certain where I was, or why I was there in the first place. However, the hair cut began after this, and by another mystical Chinese art, a good eight years was removed from my age as I sat immobile for what must have been twenty hours. A “trim” does not translate well, it seems, and after briefly resembling Harrison Ford, George Clooney, and Clark Gable, I was finally released from the tender clutches of that benevolently sinister man—much the younger in appearance and unsure as to what the meaning of anything was anymore. Were haircuts really haircuts? Was time travel involved? Was some sort of implied gratuity of deviance considered necessary after my treatment? Surely this extravagance was worth more than four dollars. What other payments might the eager little red head be expecting?

If you happen to find yourself in China, and are in need of a haircut, you may consider alternatives. Perhaps you don’t really need a haircut. Perhaps you could wait a while longer. Perhaps this is something you will never need again. Yet maybe deep tissue scalp massages from tiny, tiny, effeminate men are something you enjoy in lieu of an actual haircut—the haircutting itself merely an excuse to have your cerebrum probed by dainty Asian digits. This luxury is yours for a seeming bargain, though the true price may exceed the conservative suggestion of four dollars.