It's been a month since my last haircut. I'm due. I'm over due but there is no doubt my hair is growing slower here in Chiang Mai. Maybe it has something to do with being in a constant state of emotional and physical distress.
After returning from the club I decided to get a hair cut. One of the great things about the location of my condo is it's close to everything.
I walked down the street and popped in to the first salon I came across. Last time I got an 80 year old barber in a room filled with beautiful Thai stylists. This time I'm hoping for a hot stylist to cut my greying and thinning locks.
When I entered the salon there were two stylist busy cutting hair and three people waiting, I assume they were waiting for a haircut. ----- Instantly I feel unwelcome and unwanted almost to the point of doing an about face and getting the hell out of there. There's bad mojo here but I'm not in fear of a couple of stylist ----------------------------------- or should I be?
Then, one of the stylist sees me in the mirror, she turns and says something to me in Thai. I respond in English and use my version of sign language, fingers in a cutting motion on my head as to indicate I'd like a fucking hair cut. One stylist speaks to the other stylist in Thai. The second stylist walks over to me and asks in a disturbingly deep throated baritone voice and in English;
"May I help you"?
WTF?
I notice she's got what looks like a scorching case of herpes covering her entire mouthal region. I can't help from staring directly at it. I also notice she's not a she. She's tall, 5'8 maybe 5'10", skinny and wearing a dress but she's a dude.
OMG.
My first response is to cry. My second response is to turn and run but I don't want to hurt any one's feelings so I summon the courage to ask for an appointment. I'm scheduled to go back in 20 minutes :-(
I need a drink before going back. Time for a gin and tonic
When I return all the other customers are gone. I don't know if this is a good sign or a bad sign. The stylist I'm scheduled with motions me over and asks if I want a shampoo. No. Just a cut. Just a cut and let me get the fuck out of here, I think to myself.
I take a seat and sweat begins to drip down my spine. The herpes is obvious, what else does he have? Gonorrhea, syphilis, HEP-C, AIDS? OMG, what the fuck am I doing here? Can you get any of those from a hair cut?
My fear, however irrational, is this, he sticks himself with his scissors then accidentally pokes me. After that I'm a dead man walking or so disease infested I might as well be dead.
Dude came to Thailand, didn't get laid once and died of a communicable disease. That's luck. Bad luck.
Now I notice he's not the only "he" there. There are three employees, all dudes dressed up like girls. And ugly can't begin to describe the two other stylist. The pretty one's cutting my hair. It's comically horrific. or just horrific, I can't tell just yet.
I keep my eyes closed and hope for the best. The thing I notice most while the haircut is happening is how gentle the stylist is with his/her instruments. This helps a little with my anxiety. I don't feel in danger of a disease laden accidental scissor stick.
The learning curve here continue to be so steep you could fracture your pelvis if not careful.
"Really, fracture your pelvis"?
Yes, I heard it happened to a friend of someone neighbor. Their best friends uncle told the story to my cousins Barber so it's gotta be true.
After all is said and done it's a nice haircut. will I go back? Fuck no. I won't even walk on that side of the street on that block ever again. Ever.
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