Day of Rest 1

I forced myself to sleep until 7AM and looked forward to a restful day of recovery. I really hoped that by the end of the day I’d be able to fully extend my arms. Unfortunately that hasn’t happened.

I set a lofty goal to get back to Phuket Town and explore it for the day but lost the motivation early and settled to walk the 10k shuffle and hopefully bump into a pharmacy, a reputable pool hall or find myself in an awkward situation. I found two of the three.

After grabbing a bite to eat at Moma’s (officially called “CountryRestaurant”), I headed on the trek to take in the 10k surrounding the camp. It’s probably unusual for a tall farang (foreigner or white person) to be walking on the side of the highway in Thailand. In all likelihood, a farang in Phuket has the means to purchase or at least rent a vehicle of some kind. But since I was on foot, I had to kindly wave off a motorbike taxi every 15 seconds for the hour and a half walk.

Aside from the pharmacy, there was little of note on the roadsides. But the long walk in the sun had reminded me that my hair was far too long and I resolved to stop in the next place that offered to cut hair. Since it was Sunday, most of the shops were closed and many that were open had an overly effete salon feel to them. Word around the camp is there’s a woman on the street who will cut your hair for 30 Baht (less than $1 US) but this is information is always passed along with a snigger or two.

At the very last stretch of roadside shops I see a sign that reads, “Hair & Beauty” in a floral pastel sign with raised pearl writing. Since the salon is in a glass-front building, it wasn’t difficult to see the seven middle-aged to young women inside watching television. As I walked past I remember the look in the fighter’s face as he told me of the 30 Baht cut and made a beeline for the Hair & Beauty’s front door.

“How much cut?” my Thai isn’t improving but my English is definitely getting worse.

The matriarch looks me over and squints, “Two hundred Baht for cut and shampoo.”

I was told by a good Thai friend of mine that prices in Thailand are not the prices at all and I should negotiate for everything, so I put my skills to the test, “Sounds good.” He’d be so ashamed.

It wasn’t until I was placed in front of the full-length mirror that I realized I’d haggled masterfully. I was covered in a fine dust from head to sneaker except for the space where my sunglasses were. The sun had slowly baked my skin to a glowing maroon and my hair was plastered to my forehead by a steady stream of uncharacteristic sweat. The sweat had also created a band across my chest where the strap of my messenger bag rested. And I noticed I’d forgotten to shave since arriving in Thailand.

One of the young women led me to a chair and handed me a sippi-cup of spring water and a book of hairstyle options to choose from. The photographs displayed the latest of hardcore anime fashion. Each cut looked more cartoonish than the next and definitely required copious amounts of products to maintain the style. Haircut one: the wedge. This is what a fohawk would look like if it was three inches tall. Haircut two: the peacock. Bangs flipped to one side and glued to forehead, the back of the hair in a plume of six inch spikes. Haircut three: Mr. Sassy. Take a nineteen fifties greaser haircut, put a soft part in the middle and substitute real sideburns that grow out of the beard line for well groomed spikes that begin in the scalp, and permanently suck in your cheeks and pucker your lips like a dogs swollen anus.

“I’ll take that one.” I pointed to the wedge. Earlier at the pharmacy, I bought a pair of scissors and at worst I’d be able to cut the point off of the top.

The hairdresser ran a fine comb through my hair displacing the sweat in equal proportion, and then walked counterclockwise around my chair exactly two times.
“Hmm,” she murmured, “We start now.”

Armed with her clippers and a comb, she set to cutting the sides of my hair millimeter by millimeter. She began on the right side of my head and worked her way around back and to the left side, careful to avoid the tangle on my pate. This felt more like she was sculpting my follicles than cutting my hair. It was a repetitive and well-calculated process that took the better part of an hour. At the end of every cycle from right to left, the hairdresser would ask, “This OK?” to which I frequently responded, “Shorter.” If I was going to get a wedge, it would be a short wedge.

By the time she broke out the scissors to work on the top of my head, I was in a trance. She cut the top of my hair with the same precision she’d cut the sides, gently patting and pushing the hair around before removing the smallest amount. She had me under her spell. I didn’t care what the haircut was going to look like in the end; I only cared that she would continue pampering my scalp. “Shorter,” I whispered.

While my hairdresser was working on me, I noticed that the hairdresser to my left was using a straight razor to clean and shape the Thai gentleman she was working on. I didn’t have to wonder if this was standard procedure for too long. In my daze, I hadn’t realized that my hairdresser was finished and was fitting a new blade into her own straight razor. She soon started shaping my hair. She cut around the ears, my neck and my sideburns. Normally I don’t go for shaping but I was stuck in a black-and-white fantasy full of overcoats, hand-rolled cigarettes and fedoras. I think I may have cooed when the hairdresser ran the straight razor down my cheek.

“You want shave?” She was looking at me with undivided attention, wide-eyed.

“Absolutely.” The fantasy was complete. This was the first time I’d ever received a straight razor shave nonetheless from someone else. I closed my eyes and lay back in the chair. She put a cool compress over my eyes and lathered up my face.

The first stroke was magnificent. It started on my cheek, at mid-ear level and continued to my jaw-line. There was something supremely satisfying about the scratching sound the razor made across my face and the popping noise of the hair being cut. She continued, with a stroke followed by a wipe. I’d almost dozed off while she was working on my cheeks but came to attention when the razor drifted into my goatee line. The long smooth strokes the hairdresser made on my cheek were replaced by short, halting cuts on my chin.

I wanted to open my eyes but the cool scented compress lulled them closed. I wanted to mutter in protest but the hour and a half this woman had just spent pampering my hair prevented me. But I was becoming more and more aware of the struggle the razor made to get through the thick hair on my chin. The hairdresser was now resorting to getting a good windup, starting at my ear, and swooping down to the chin, only stopping when my skin folded against the razor. A few times it felt like the razor penetrated my skin but I couldn’t tell if I was bleeding or sweating. My heartbeat increased while she was working her way through my chin. Then she came to my upper-lip.

I’ve had a full mustache since seventh grade. It was the bane of my puberty. It never grew in fine and wispy like it should but it started full and menacingly foreshadowed what was to happen to the rest of my body. But this was a false prophecy. By the time I reached high school, the dark shadow on my upper-lip mocked the general hairlessness of the rest of my body and prompted nicknames like, “The Mexican” (which is probably responsible for my sense of solidarity with Latin America). I’ve felt the struggle traditional razors have with my upper lip and now this sweet Thai woman, who had only been able to prepare for this battle by dueling with the Spartan upper lips of Thai men, was undertaking too daunting a task. I felt her pinch my upper lip between her thumb and index finger and I yelped, “No. No. That’s OK. No shave lip. I want a mustache. That’s good.”

“Yeh?” came her reply.

“Yeah,” I reassured.

She moved the razor back to my already shaved cheeks and pushed me down and back into the chair. She was going through the motions of something she was good at. I could sympathize. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, wipe. She was getting back in the pace. She placed the razor on my cheek near my ear but this time she went up. She used the razor to shape the hairline on my forehead. This was confusing but I’d seen this style often in my Dominican neighborhood. “What the hell,” I thought. “I can’t let her finish on a bad note.” So I didn’t protest—even when instead of shaping the cut, she just started blatantly shaving my forehead—from now straight hairline to my eyebrows—she shaved my forehead. I’m looking forward to the consequences of that.

The cool compress was removed and I was shuffled to the sink to have my hair washed. As I lean back, the chair started to vibrate and provided an electronic massage. Maybe the hairdresser sensed my unease at what just happened to me at the cutting chair and proceeded to massage my scalp for a full hour. She used three different shampoos and two conditioners—all with lovely calming floral scents. Each lather sent me a bit deeper into calmness. When the wash was over I stood and blinked in slow motion. I paid the 200 Baht and tipped an extra hundred.

I put on my sunglasses, slid the glass door open and broached the tropical heat with a resolve that only a half-mustache, pointy crew-cut, freshly shorn forehead and 5 kilometer highway walk back to camp can provide.

Live the Dream.