Salon Mania

Salon Mania  July 19, 2013

I was getting shaggy, and if I didn't do something about it soon, I'd look rougher than a yeti.  I'd only been in Shanghai two weeks, and it was already time for a haircut.

I don't remember ever getting my hair cut in Golmud (in Qinghai Province, where my family had lived 25 years ago).  My mom must've been the family barber--although she did have to get her own cut by a local eventually.

"You can get a haircut in China for about 50 kuài," said Mike, a guy from the U.K. in my training group.  That wasn't even nine dollars.  Although I'd had to shell out three months rent plus deposit before moving into my apartment in Zhabei, I could certainly afford that.

Next to the high rise I'd just moved into was a white building with black and white barber poles spinning on either side of the door.  The sign of the establishment read "Salon Mania".  I was pretty sure that, away from touristy areas like Jing'an Temple and the Bund, I wouldn't have to pay an arm and a leg.  And I couldn't beat the convenience of the location.

The floor consisted of the same large cream-colored tiles I had in my apartment.  A huge aquarium separated the shampoo area from the cutting area.  In the tank swam about a dozen fish, all over two feet in length and all different colors.  The water in the tank was pretty clean:  I felt better about this place already.

I took one look at the cute receptionist behind the counter and smiled.  With her flowing, dark brown hair fashionably cut, her skin a healthy light olive, she was one of the prettiest girls I'd seen in Shanghai.  Her light brown eyes and long lashes made her look like she could be Kristin Kreuk's little sister, and I immediately liked her.

Her brother, the dude with the top knot I'd seen smoking outside earlier, looked to be the owner.  He had a very serious face, a black and white polo shirt, and no intention of being considered preppy.  His face said "edgy", and I could almost imagine him wanting to be the next Karl Lagerfeld--there was an intensity there.  

I said "Ni hao," and gave the two behind the counter a tentative smile.  I wondered how much English they spoke, and if I'd be able to say, "Please don't die my hair purple," and have them understand me. 

The first thing I had to do was let them take my backpack (I was planning on going to Jiadeli Supermarket after) and stow it in a small brown locker behind the counter.  They gave me a key with a small blue number on it.  The guy taking my bag looked like a bouncer at a club--wide shoulders, heavy bones, a big head, and a tight black shirt.

"Shampoo," the possible owner said.  He indicated I should follow a young boy to the area behind the fish tank.  The shampoo chair had a footrest that the boy put up for me and comfy black leather.  It was hard not to sink and sigh in a chair like that, especially with beautiful fish swimming languidly in front of me. 

The shampoo boy looked like he was about 14.  His jeans were almost tight enough to be hipster.  He had a fun, spiky hairdo that looked like something you'd see on an anime character.  He kept a string of small wooden beads wrapped around and around his wrist, which he took off to work. 

Not only did he give an excellent shampoo (vigorously but gently scrubbing the orange-scented lather into my scalp), but he also cradled my neck with strong fingers, encouraging me to relax as he rinsed the suds.  For a young kid, he was seemed strong and self-assured; there was no awkwardness.  I don't remember anyone in America ever holding my neck this supportively.  I have some issues with neck pain which lead me to visit a chiropractor fairly regularly, and leaning back into a chair while trying to hold your head up doesn't help.  I didn't have to worry too much this time, though.

After drying, the boy led me to a chair on the other side of the wall--the window side.  I briefly wondered if the plan was to get other people to notice a white girl getting her hair cut here.  The boy draped me with not one cape but two--the first a flowing white "capelet" (if you follow fashion at all you know what I'm talking about), the second your longer, standard, tight-necked one.  In the mirror, I saw the little receptionist approach behind me on the right side, moving the hairdresser's cart into position.  My eyes must've widened a little, because she made eye contact with me in the mirror.  "Okay I cut hair?"  I nodded and smiled immediately, but on the inside I was squirming.  Why oh why hadn't I learned to say "Yes, but please don't shave my head" in Mandarin?

Gently and tentatively, the girl started to comb my hair from right to left.  "Um, no," I said, gesturing to indicate I usually parted my hair on the left.  She nodded and changed directions.  Oh God, I thought.  I'd totally thought the owner (or who I'd assumed was the owner) was going to cut my hair.  I had not walked into this place to have some sweet sixteen do it. 

But it had to be done.  I was going to start teaching full time at my worksite, Wujiaochang, the next day, and I wanted to look like I'd made an effort.  I swear it hadn't been that long since my last cut, but I was feeling seriously unkempt.

To calm myself down, I checked out the girl's clothes in the mirror as she was still combing.  White leather saddle shoes with cute cutouts and no socks.  Bleached skinny jeans with a few fashionable rips, and a skinny pink belt.  She wore a white tee shirt and a thin, cute yellow sweater over it, and black plastic earrings dangled from her lobes.

I started to notice that every time she'd finish cutting a section of my hair, she'd move the clip to her own head.  She'd re-section my hair, re-clip, and cut again. 

Not to be racist, but if this had happened in Micronesia, I would've left immediately.  I got lice there in 2004, and using the same clips as your client was definitely not the SOP (military lingo for standard operating procedure) for hairdressers in America.  But this was not America, I needed a haircut, and I needed to relax!

I forced myself to pay attention to her deft little hands as she worked.   She was holding her shears in the so-called traditional/Western grip used by Europeans-- first knuckle of the ring finger on her right hand in the right finger hole, thumb in the other.  She was not talking to me, but she wasn't talking to the boy or anyone else, either.  Soft Chinese pop played in the background.  The girl's eyes were narrowed in concentration.  Something about her face made me pay attention:  she reminded me of "Venus", a hairdresser I'd visited regularly at an establishment named "Dramatics NYC".  Repeatedly this girl looked in the mirror, at my face, measuring the sides, making sure everything was even.  Her hands were--experienced. 

Maybe she wasn't 16.  Maybe she was in her early 20s.  Many of my Japanese students at Mukogawa had looked a lot younger than they were--perhaps that was the case here.  I'd really misjudged this person.

At one point, the shampoo boy, who was watching everything, started to twist the beads around his wrist impatiently.  The girl paused, gave him a slightly dirty look, and rolled her eyes.  They were either dating or related, I thought, trying not to smile.  Clearly this girl took her work seriously.  She was a perfectionist, and the slightest interruption, even one non-verbal, was not tolerated.

I smiled at her broadly at one point and gave her a thumbs up.  She nodded with a little smile and kept working for about ten more minutes before blow drying.  As she worked, the shampoo boy took a fresh-smelling light blue sponge and sweetly wiped the tiny stray hairs from my nose and cheeks.  Then she picked up her shears again--meticulously checking, layering, studying.  She was doing a really good job.

She finished off with a touch of hair wax to keep everything in place, and I had to admit, although my hair looked slightly pouffier than I was expecting, it felt great.

I took one last look in the mirror and smiled at the girl as I stood up.  "Hen hăo," I said with a thumbs up.  She gave me a big smile in return, and even looked slightly humble.

"Eighty," the bouncer guy at the front told me.  It was not a question. 

"Eighty?"  I almost gasped.  This was thirty more than Mike had told me.  Then again, Mike hadn't been living in Shanghai previously, and I reminded myself  that eighty kuài was about 13 bucks.  This was Shanghai, and this was a better cut than some I'd paid $20 for in the States.  Plus, I did not want to mess with Bouncer Guy.

I walked out feeling fancy.  First haircut in China:  check.