That Thing That Grows on My Scalp

Every strand of my hair seems to have a mind of their own. And worse yet, it also appears that the concept of uniformity is also alien to them. Therefore lest i exercise some disciplinary measures, with the help of a barber or a trainee hairstylist, they tend to grow in whichever individual direction they so choose.

Their resistance to order became apparent during my last years of junior highschool. A few years later it turned into a full scale anarchy. Thus began my arduous battle with this particular part of my anatomy. My campaign began by visiting a Maduranese barber down the street. My years of observation tells me that this Maduranese fellows apply the most direct approach in the realm of hair-cutting. They nod at you and gesture toward the chair, wrap some cloth around you and without bothering to ask what particular hairstyle you fancy, they began to work on your head. In less than ten minutes everything is all over. Your hair is shorter and the barber a few thousands rupiahs richer. However it just so happen that there was an army barrack in the immediate vicinity and those army guys had been regular patron of the establishment. Thus, due to the barber's lack of communication skill I sported an army recruit look for several years.

I should probably warn you that Maduranese hair-cutting is not for the faint-hearted...nor the hygienic. There is a phase in this hair-cutting process in which the barber will trim the edges of your scalp. In doing so, instead of using Gillette safety razor that, above all, ensure our safety, they opt to use old fashioned butterfly knife, a razor-sharp, blood-chilling butterfly knife. First they wet the edges with a brush which is previously soaked in soapy water then in swift but devilishly firm movements they perform their skill with the knife. You can feel the cold steel grit against your neck skin and your mind tactlessly remind you that one wrong move can sever the arteries around your neck.

It is in this particular phase that I picture my self as a captured spy at the mercy of his interogator. My hand clenched and my mouth shut. The evil contra-espionage officer is torturing me with his knife trying to obtain precious information, which i would gladly give if i know what it is. This dreadful process takes about three minutes and i'm always glad everytime it's over.

However, after several years I found the tension was getting to my nerve so I decided to visit a 'salon'. Compared to the Maduranese barber, this is Shangri-la. The place was nicely clean and the attendants were absolutely charming and helpful. They used scissors most of the time and much to my relief, Gillette safety razor. In addition to all that I have to admit that being treated by the opposite member of my sex is actually nice. Sadly, things begin to change when my girlfriend found out that I had been frequenting a salon. She expressed her dislike that I chose to be a regular in a salon that, rumor had it, provided 'extra' services. Actually that explained why most of its clients were males of working age.

After a heated argument, which she won, of course, she decided to take this matter into her own hand and the following month she took me to another salon. I was about to protest when I immediately found out why she took me there. The salon was run by a man who tried really hard to look like a woman. He was doing a good job actually. If he wore make up i would not be able tell. Well, the problem was, I was never really comfortable being around these people. Call me shallow and homophobic but despite the decent haircut, i never went back.

Just when I thought that I'm losing the battle, I spotted a training salon offering haircuts for an extremely reasonable price. A training salon is where the apprentices and trainees practise their newly acquired skills to the poor souls who are willing to risk a week of bad-hair days. In the end, I thought what the heck! If something went wrong I could always go for the Buddhist monk look. So I went in.

The trainee looked nervous as I sat down. In the first ten minutes she had more trouble with the wire of her clipper than my hair. After a while she calmed down and were able, or so it seemed, to concentrate at the important matter. You see, when I took off my glasses, the world becomes blurry so i had no idea what she was doing. however, I found my self hissing prayers everytime her clippers buzzed way too close to my ears. Half an hour later she didn't seem to make any progress and i caught her staring at my head for a few moments as if trying to figure out what to do. Furthermore, much to my dismay, she excused hersef. I put on my glasses and was immediately shocked with what i saw.

Back when I was a kid I used to go to the ricefields near my house. After a night of rainstorm I usually found that the paddies were in a hell of disarray. The neat linings was all gone and the paddies scattered in various different direction. That was what I saw happened to my hair. Oh well..the monk look it is. This is the price of being too thrifty. I should've gone to the actual salon, rather than the training version of it.

However, it turned that the poor trainee went to summon the aid of her supervisor because she obviously thought that my hair was beyond redemption. So help came and with professional calmness the supervisor began his rescue efforts. Like many other rescue attempts, this one also attracted spectators. Before long other trainees began to flock in and watch thir supervisor performed a miracle. They made comments, ask questions, and made some suggestions and the supervisor responded in a patient, teacherly way. I guess that is how it feels to be a frog in a dissecting table.

Sadly, that was my last experiment to salvage my hair. From then on, everytime I sit on the barber/hairstylist/trainee-hairstylist's chair, I always say " Satu senti. Rata"