Hair Salon

(Lindsay)

Yesterday, in the evening, I went to get my hair cut at the local hair salon. When I held my forefinger and thumb a half inch apart to indicate how much I wanted taken off, it seems the stylist took me to mean that was how long I wanted my hair. Holy Eisenhower! Nevertheless, my hair will grow, and the experience was yet another adventure. I had heard there was a salon on an alley just off one of the lanes of the silk market, and I might have missed it but for the old fashioned barber’s pole outside the door. Inside, customers occupied each of the two chairs in front of mirrors, and beneath the mirrors were all the clipping and combing paraphernalia you’d find anywhere.

One of the women cutting hair motioned me to one of two seats in the waiting area, three feet away, on the other side of the room. When it was my turn, I was ushered to a room in the back with a chair reclined to a sink just beneath the hot water heater. Every time the stylist turned on the hot water, the heater shuddered so much I had to restrain myself from jumping up to make sure that the thing was securely fastened to the wall.

The styling itself took longer than you might imagine, and I was impressed with the stylist’s skill at making less look like more. I was even more impressed with how little she charged me. She charged me so little, in fact, that, given what I spend back home, it might be worth it to have my hair done in China from now on.

By the time I stepped out of the salon, it had grown dark. As I unlocked my bike I wondered a little whether I could see well enough to ride or should walk back to the apartment. There were so few people about that I decided to ride. In an American city, riding a bike on such a dark and lonely street would make me very nervous, but here in China, in the soft, springtime air, in the peace and restfulness of a Friday evening in the old silk market lanes of shops shuttered for the night, riding my bike was blissful. Staying long enough to sense the rhythm of a community is meaningful, even if you can’t pinpoint what it means. It’s nice to notice the difference between a Sunday night and a Friday night in a place, the difference in the aromas in the air, in the kinds of noise. A contentment very much like being at home begins to settle in.