Getting a haircut should be enjoyable, but in China it doesn't always work out that way.  A few years ago when a friend came to visit in Chengdu he was determined to be independent and not receive help at the barber shop. I came home one day to find his head looking like an abused puppy. At least he got his 3 kuai worth (yes, that was the actual price).------> 

This brings me to Saturday when I went to get my own haircut. Usually I shun upscale snooty places in favor of the corner barber, but two factors led me to one of the more upscale chains in Chinese haircuttery (Shen Mei). First, last time I got a bad haircut at my local guy. My general theory is that I’ve probably only had two legitimately good haircuts in my life, so lack of skill is rarely a deterrent for me.

Second, and more importantly, my friend bought a jinka (Gold Card) at the chain meaning she had committed 2,000 RMB to this place before ever having seen the results. Advice to the consumer: before you commit yourself to a jinka, make sure you like a place. She didn’t, so when she decided that they gave her a bad cut, she was eager to have friends use up some of the money. This is how I ended up at a pretentious salon having the worst haircutting experience of my life.

If it wasn’t bad enough that there was annoying techno music playing on a loop the entire time I was there, the people around me all looked—how should I put this—more like the Shanghai than Beijing crowd, if you know what I mean In my shorts and a tee-shirt, I was easily the most under-dressed person. Of course, I was getting a haircut, not going clubbing.

When you’re paying five times as much as normal for a cut, you expect at least mediocre service. However, as soon as I sat down for my hair washing the guy dumped copious amounts of water on my arm and all down my back. This has never happened to me anywhere else before in any part of the world. He was quite apologetic, but my shirt was still soaking wet.

After that fun we wandered over to my barber—I mean stylist—whose work area was sectioned off into a little cubicle with red sheets. The guy had a long, bushy pony-tail, which put me into a worse mood than I was already in from the splish n’ splash experience. My stylist had apparently just left an Italian rave before showing up for work. Not promising.

He immediately began complimenting my Chinese excessively after my amazing display of telling him “duan yixie” (a lot shorter). This once again proves my theory that any Chinese is enough to elicit effusive praise. The beauty of low expectations!

However it wasn’t long before he stopped complimenting me and starting insulting both my physical appearance and intelligence. “You’re losing a lot of hair in the front. A lot. Did you know this?” He seemed to have decided my apartment has no mirrors. Quickly he took out a booklet and showed me a number creams for exorbitant prices that I could purchase from him. Fair enough, the guy wants to make a yuan. [update: In response to my friendly barber, I have now started taking Chinese Propecia and am keeping a log]

However, he took my rejection of his offer of proof that I didn’t grasp the full seriousness of the problem. “It’s bad. Really bad. You need this.” Pause. “Do you understand? It’s quite terrible.” I assured him that I understood that I was well on my way to Daddy Warbucks-land and he seemed to accept my answer and stop the tough sell. Nonetheless he periodically stopped to reinforce to me that I should really go see a doctor. When I responded that his haircut made him a prime candidate to join a Whitesnake cover band blank stares ensued.

There was quiet (blessed silence!) for a few minutes before he announced, “You have a few white hairs in the back!” Pause. “How old are you?” And once again he had managed to point out that my body is deteriorating at an unprecedented rate in human history. Thank you Pony-Tail Guy! I informed him that hair loss and color changes were quite normal in a 64 year old. More blank stares.

Finally, when the haircut was getting mercifully close to completion, he instructed the hair washing guy, who apparently had been sitting silently, and creepily, behind me in the cubicle through the whole ordeal, to take a picture of me with his camera phone. Presumably it was to document my sad physical state, but maybe he just wanted to put up pictures of his customers on the walls. I respectfully, but assertively, declined.

By the end of the experience I had been doused with water, told that I was not only losing my hair, but the scraps remaining were turning white, and finally accosted by a stealthy hair washing guy with a camera phone. Before I left I didn’t even get a chance to notice if the cut looked any good. On the upside there is only 1500 yuan left on my friend’s jinka. So I’ll be back in a month or so.