A Bargain

It’s two weeks since I returned from the Christmas holidays and this is only my third entry. I’ve not felt much like writing about the everyday experience of life here. This has coincided with quite a few interesting things that have happened to me since being back. This is typical. At a time when I don’t feel like writing about mundane everyday nonsense, loads of mundane everyday nonsense happens.

I thought I’d start off by writing about possibly the most mundane everyday experience: yesterday I got my hair cut. This was no ordinary haircut, though. This was my first experience of a barber in this part of the world.

When my hair grows I have curly corkscrews. I shaved my own head in October rather than getting a “style” done at the barbers because, two summers ago, one barber shaved my head around the sides and back about two inches too high. I looked like Forrest Gump or Private Pile. Every time I’ve been back since, the barber has used the same mark in my hair and shaved it too high again. By shaving it all off I thought I would wipe the slate clean.

Because of the heat my hair had reached afro proportions within two months.

I’m always at a disadvantage at the barbers because I have to remove my spectacles. I am extremely short sighted and have astigmatism. One helpful optician last year explained to me that this meant my eye was shaped “oval, you know, like a rugby ball, rather than round, like a football.” As you can imagine, I was delighted that she had helped me to imagine those unfamiliar shapes by comparing them to balls… I would've been lost without her assistance.

This myopia has caused some embarrassing problems in the past. When I was about thirteen and suffering from a mild cold, I was getting my hair cut and of course couldn’t see a thing. About half way through I noticed that the usual banter between the barbers had ceased. I got the nasty feeling that everyone was looking at me. Eventually, my barber asked me if I wanted a tissue. I narrowed my eyes in order to try to see better and was alarmed to see a luminous green, thick, sticky gloop of mucus hanging from my nose, suspended, swaying ever so slightly. It had already stretched from nose to upper lip and showed no sign of snapping.

It was at that point that I decided growing my hair might be a good idea.

It wasn’t, but that’s another story.

The moment I remove my spectacles in that barber’s chair, I’m at Sweeny Todd’s mercy. I can see the outline of my head, but can’t see any of my features. They wave their hands in a blur around my head and I gradually detect a slight reduction in the size of it, but that’s about it. When I put my glasses back on at the end, they always give me a tissue. They must be able to see just how close to tears I am.

So what was my first Singapore haircut like?

I sat down in the only free seat – the other three barbers were chopping away. As I sat down, they all stopped and looked at me. A conversation in Mandarin between my barber and the other three began. All four of them were still regarding me, the other three taking the occasional swipe with their scissors at their clients’ heads. I laughed, nervously, and they laughed too.

“You want it shaved?” I was asked.
“Er… number four round the sides and back and…”
“Trim on top?”
“Please.”

I removed my spectacles.

He set about my head with his clippers. Was he shaving just a little too high? Was that a number four anyway?

The clippers were put away. He attacked the top of my head with blunt scissors. There was none of the usual: “Going anywhere nice this summer, sir?” or “Are you a student?” - a question that barbers have consistently asked me since I was… well… a student.

After what felt like less than five minutes, he put his scissors down and used his hands to make that “Ta da!” gesture that magicians make after performing a trick. Completely blind, I nodded and mumbled something about it looking fine. I thought he was about to pick up a mirror and ask me if I wanted to see the back – a question that foxed me as a toddler when I answered in the affirmative, got up from my seat and made my way to the back door because I thought that the nice hairdresser wanted to show the little boy her lovely back garden.

Spraying more water on my head, I realised that he hadn’t quite finished yet. To my horror he picked up a hairdryer and proceeded to blow dry my hair.

Anyone with frizzy hair will know that this is a gargantuan error.

He dusted me down, removed the cape and I put my glasses on and took a glance in the mirror.

“Thanks,” I lied. I stood up and paid. Two of the barbers gazed at my head as if suppressing laughter or as if seeing something the like of which they’d never seen before; I couldn’t tell which.

Not for the first time I left the barbers looking like Eraserhead.

The first thing I did was run to the nearest public toilet and splash my hair with water before meeting Ella in a café. She spent the next few minutes studying my head with a perplexed expression on her face. “Your sideburns are uneven,” she finally remarked, understatedly.

Not only that, he had also shaved the sides and back too high, and, I noticed, his clippers seemed to have missed quite a few grey hairs, which are still about two centimetres long.

Still, must look on the bright side. I usually spend twice the amount of money for a haircut like this.