My hair is useless
Yesterday, I had my hair cut by someone called Bay. As to why he named himself after either (a) a body of water; or (b) a deep, prolonged growl, I haven’t the faintest idea. What I do know, however, is that the more unlikely the name, the more unlikely it is that the person will actually be able to speak English. Quite naturally, then, he fluffed up my hair and started motoring along in Mandarin. This posed a problem since my grasp of Mandarin is about as firm as Britney Spears’ grip on reality, and I reacted as I would to anything I do not understand: by adopting a pleasant expression and nodding.
This, by the way, is how I got through philosophy class. The lecturer would ramble endlessly about how all renates are cordates or something or other and I would, despite not having the foggiest notion of what was going on, nod sagely all the way through. Note that this is much more commendable than what John did, which was try to mask his sleeping head with just an A4 sheet held discreetly in front of his face. And it might’ve worked too, had we not exposed his devious plan by guffawing.
Another secret to my pass grade was an ability to paraphrase absolutely anything. Except Heidegger, he was completely unparaphraseable.
But back to the salon.
After much Mandarin and nodding and smiling, the actual cutting began. I don’t mean to complain but I’ve lost all faith in hairdressers. No one so far has been able to tame the unruly mess that inhabits the top of my head. One guy came close but the only implement he used was an electric shaver and his “salon” consisted of a single chair which he moved from army camp to army camp. He gave me the sheep treatment but still, just two weeks later, I looked like a dandelion. Yes, my hair’s rate of growth is so rapid that it should, ideally, be measured in km/h.
Oblivious to all this, Bay started snipping. It was a long and laborious process largely, I suspect, because my hair was reproducing faster than he could cut. Still, by sheer force of will and ever larger scissors, he managed it, finishing off triumphantly with what looked like a pair of garden shears.
Then, he started styling.
Actually, I’m using that term loosely because a more accurate description would be threatening my hair with grievous bodily harm. He rolled up his sleeves and, with both hands, pushed up and down and sideways with such force that, at various points in the process, I thought to myself “that’s it, my head’s coming off.” Still, I was rather pleased with the results.
This was, of course, utterly pointless because everyone knows that no matter how good your hair looks in the salon, there is no way in the world that you are going to reproduce that look at home. I have walked out of salons looking like David Beckham (oh, you laugh) and then, just the day after, gone back to being Rene Higuita.
And it was no different this time.
I went home and analysed studiously the waves he’d somehow created on my head. I made careful note of the swirls and the crests and re-enacted the motion of his hands. And yet, this morning, I applied some wax onto my palms, rubbed it vigorously into my hair and miraculously achieved the helmet hair effect. I was distraught. There were no waves whatsoever. Just tears. There’re always tears.
This, by the way, is how I got through philosophy class. The lecturer would ramble endlessly about how all renates are cordates or something or other and I would, despite not having the foggiest notion of what was going on, nod sagely all the way through. Note that this is much more commendable than what John did, which was try to mask his sleeping head with just an A4 sheet held discreetly in front of his face. And it might’ve worked too, had we not exposed his devious plan by guffawing.
Another secret to my pass grade was an ability to paraphrase absolutely anything. Except Heidegger, he was completely unparaphraseable.
But back to the salon.
After much Mandarin and nodding and smiling, the actual cutting began. I don’t mean to complain but I’ve lost all faith in hairdressers. No one so far has been able to tame the unruly mess that inhabits the top of my head. One guy came close but the only implement he used was an electric shaver and his “salon” consisted of a single chair which he moved from army camp to army camp. He gave me the sheep treatment but still, just two weeks later, I looked like a dandelion. Yes, my hair’s rate of growth is so rapid that it should, ideally, be measured in km/h.
Oblivious to all this, Bay started snipping. It was a long and laborious process largely, I suspect, because my hair was reproducing faster than he could cut. Still, by sheer force of will and ever larger scissors, he managed it, finishing off triumphantly with what looked like a pair of garden shears.
Then, he started styling.
Actually, I’m using that term loosely because a more accurate description would be threatening my hair with grievous bodily harm. He rolled up his sleeves and, with both hands, pushed up and down and sideways with such force that, at various points in the process, I thought to myself “that’s it, my head’s coming off.” Still, I was rather pleased with the results.
This was, of course, utterly pointless because everyone knows that no matter how good your hair looks in the salon, there is no way in the world that you are going to reproduce that look at home. I have walked out of salons looking like David Beckham (oh, you laugh) and then, just the day after, gone back to being Rene Higuita.
And it was no different this time.
I went home and analysed studiously the waves he’d somehow created on my head. I made careful note of the swirls and the crests and re-enacted the motion of his hands. And yet, this morning, I applied some wax onto my palms, rubbed it vigorously into my hair and miraculously achieved the helmet hair effect. I was distraught. There were no waves whatsoever. Just tears. There’re always tears.
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