The Time My Hair Was Murdered

One time on a trip to Vietnam in the summer of 2008, I traveled to the small hillside town of Sapa in the Northwest part of the country. I had already learned on that trip to never become to trusting of the people you meet in this country, and although I tried not to learn such a thing, the lesson only became more apparent the more I thought it a crude stereotype. There were many stories that I could tell to show this sad truth, but the one that would tell it best is the one about the time my hair was cut like shrubbery.

On this particular cool afternoon the clouds moved quickly in front and away from the sun, so that in the sunlight you could break a sweat in an instant, but in the shade you shivered as the breeze came through you. In preparation for my flight back home, I thought that it would be prudent to give my shaggy head a trimming. It had been afterall several months since I had a proper haircut, and at least two weeks since I had shaved. Some people think that I'm cheap for not going to a barber shop more regularly, but the truth is that I'm actually terrified of being in the hands of someone I don't know. Strangers don't tend to do what you ask necessarily, and they always don't care how you look afterwards.

It was on the recommendation of my hotel that I picked a place, and with the help of a girl at reception I had written on paper, the phrase "cut a little bit." I walked into the shop and explained exactly what I wanted to a nice girl who seemed to understand my English quite well. She relayed my wishes to a guy standing beside her who nodded in agreement. Their long dialogue between every word of mine inspired my trusting heart and gave me confidence enough to turn the chair to the mirror and allow the bib to placed.

Then seemingly out of the floor appears a small, dark-skinned, goateed man in my mirror. The surprise must have taken me a moment, because my memory cannot reason his abrupt appearance or impossible understanding of what I wanted. I showed him the phrase from reception again and he nodded violently before I could even finish a single sentence; exactly in the way that everyone in Vietnam does before they give you something you didn't ask for.

The first cut was on the back of my head so I couldn't see it, but the second was right on the left part of the top of my head. It was so deep that I pulled my head away saying, "too much!" I tried again to show him how little I wanted to cut, which he again seemed to understand, and so I sat back again, like a fool. The next cut was no different, and I pulled away nearly begging, explaining to him to go sloooooww. But it was all to no avail. I've never seen anyone open and close a scissors so fast, I've watched people cut grass slower than this! I rested my head on my hand and looked at myself with chagrin. When I finally made him stop it was too late, all I could do was let him finish cutting it all the same half-inch length. In its entirety it took five minutes.

When he finished he told me where the bathroom was and went outside for a smoke. Apparently he was in a rush. Vietnam has taught me the disappointing reality that here, you always get what you pay for, and you never get what you pay for. Oh, and nobody gives a shit about you once they've separated you from your dollars.