Choppy Chop
I have been cutting my own hair here. A haircut costs 75 cents, max, and they even throw in a shave (about that later), but given my lack of communication skills in Khmer and the Khmer’s ahem, different hairstyle choices, I have chosen to cut my own hair at home. Because the last couple of times I got a haircut, the only way I could possibly comb my hair after a couple of weeks was in a way that made me creepily resemble Adolf Hitler. It works for them and their Asian headshapes and complexions, but not so much for this big-nosed dude of European stock.
I have experience in cutting my own hair. I proudly owned- and used- clippers back in the States. It goes way back to college. One of my most traumatic memories from my college days was me spending a long time in the bathroom with scissors, and when I emerged my roommate/evil twin says to me, scoffingly: “did you cut your own hair?” (This experience repeated again several years later in Julie’s and my first year of marriage. Only, I didn’t have evil friends to point out the flaws. I went out looking like David Bowie, only not famous, because my wife wasn’t home to stop me. We spent some quality time in the bathroom with scissors that day, Julie and me.)
So I bought some clippers in Phnom Penh, for a whopping $15. That may not seem like a lot to you, Staters, but it’s approximately 6% of my monthly salary. And the investment will never recoup (is recoup always a transitive verb, or can it be intransitive like I’m using it here? See folks, this is what teaching English does to you). I’ve cut my own hair three times in the last six months or so. That’s once every two months. So let’s say I’ll cut my own hair six more times in the next year I’m here. That’s a total of nine times. Fifteen dollars divided by nine is $1.67. So that’s a lot more than 75 cents. Even if I was a wild man and got my hair cut every month (24 x .75), I am barely breaking even (eighteen bucks instead of fifteen).
And I’m not even good at it! As I remarked to Julie after spending some time with my clippers last night, my hair looks worse and worse every time I cut it. I miss spots, I have these gnarly cowlicks, the back and sideburns are all furry. I’m not even trying to get fancy! Who would’ve thought clippering one’s own head was so difficult.
The experience is not pleasant, either. I’m stripped to my kroma, sweating profusely, hair sticking to every available inch of exposed skin. And because there’s higher voltage here than in the States, the clippers get really hot to the touch. Which makes me sweat even more. Sigh.
But I guess that’s the price I’m willing to pay for some control over my life/hair (the price being 15 dollars and a sweaty mess). It’s one thing I at least have some mastery and control over. Instead of handing my head over to people who may not have its best interests in mind, I’d rather retain creative control over my own scalp, even if the results are less than stellar. Why? Because I have so much less control over a lot more things here than I did back home. So instead of just saying the Khmer word for “short” and hoping for the best, I can chop away with reckless abandon, speaking and understanding all the English I want to my barber: myself.
Oh, and the shaving. When they’re done cutting their hair they tip you back in their chair (quite startling if you’re not prepared for it) and begin to shave your face, unlathered, with a razor. Razors that are suited for wispy-haired Khmer faces that have the beard coverage of approximately a pre-pubescent 8th-grader, but not grizzly-stiff-haired Barang faces. I believe they used this form of torture on American POWs back in ‘Nam. It’s painful! And when you have a razor to the tenderest neckmeat sections of your body, you can’t exactly wince or cry out in pain. No, you must stay absolutely still, silently mind-screaming for your Mommy.
Yeah, clippers = totally worth it.
