Hair-raising Lessons

I had the most traumatic experience in Beijing thus far today. At the hairdressing salon.

A friend and I went to Xidan mainly to shop for the obligatory Beijing Snacks before heading back to Singapore. Since it was on the way, I decided to trim my hair. My friend took half a step in and promptly walked out. "What kind of atas place is this." and later on "I go to a barber, not a hairstylist."

It started when the master hairstylist and his assistant saw my hair, hyperventilated and took it upon themselves to redeem those filamentous dead cells. One third of the time, I didn't understand a word they said about what they were gonna subject my hair to and resorted to looking up online translators to get my points across.The stylist had the most exasperated look on his face after every few sentences. Another third was spent swearing - both silently and aloud - because they wouldn't tell me the duration of whatever numerous processes they had lined up. "Yi4 huier3, yi3 huier3" (translates to just a while, just a while). And the last third was spent trying to evade their nosy questions as politely as I could manage in Chinese.

After two and a half hours of interacting with this generally strange bunch of people, I learnt a few things.

1) When they ask anything about personal relationships (nosy buggers), make sure your response is the kind that slams doors shut. Are you attached? Yes. Was that guy they saw you with your boyfriend? Yes. Is your boyfriend from Beijing? Yes. It saves you a whole lot of breath and I learnt it the hard way. I really didn't need a persistent, possibly bi, at least 15 years older hairstylist asking if I'd like to have dinner with him. Whether in jest or not, NO. Such things, I can do without. (Major trauma points here btw. Just saying.)

2) "You should try straightening your hair!" 
They have an obsession with straight hair. Or straightening hair, in the event the hair's not straight. The first thing the stylist said to me was, "Your hair is very curly." The assistant, upon walking in, said the same thing. Each time I shot back, "I am not going to straighten my hair." And for the rest of the time, they just couldn't understand why.  Instead of attempting to explain, I eventually settled with, "I. don't. like. it." See why I was swearing so much?

3) They have an obsession with attaining 'perfection'. It's also one of the few English words they knew and constantly used. We're gonna make your hair *perfect*; I'll cut your hair like this, then do this (insert undecipherable ramble) and this (insert more ramble) and this, and your hair will be *perfect*; No, we cannot do it this way, else your hair won't be *perfect*. And I'm like,"I am OKAY with less than perfect hair. Omg. Do you comprehend me???" No no no, as the master stylist, I have to make your hair *perfect*. One day, I will want perfect hair. But until that day comes, I just want to trim my hair with the least hassle and annoyance. Shaved 5 years off my life.

4) They don't get hints to stop talking. With the almost tangible language barrier, you'd think there's nothing much to talk about but no, impressively enough, they had a whole repertoire of topics up their sleeves. Questions, views, comments, opinions. Everything. And there I was trying to hold a conversation on whatsapp/ gchat to no avail because I keep getting interrupted. How? The stylist pokes my arm every time he talks.

One day, I'll look back at this and laugh at how ridiculous it seems. But for now, I have yet to recover from the trauma.