A Haircut and a Close Shave Make for a Handsome Miguksaram

At some point during the last week, I had made up my mind that I would get a haircut. The last time I had cut my hair had been July 4th at about 11:00 pm, the day before my flight to Korea, my three-day Thursday, if you will. The last time I had my hair cut by someone would have been around June 2006. I was interviewing for summer jobs, and so had shaved and cut my hair. Immediately after securing a job I started growing both my beard and my hair for Pirates of Penzance, and after that I bought a set of clippers from Wal-Mart, which recuperated their value within 1.5 uses.

Because the last time I had cut my hair I had merely buzzed it with said clippers, it had all been growing out at about the same length. This made me look fuzzy and friendly, but not very much like a teacher. My beard was also becoming troublesome as I had not been able to even it out since orientation when I borrowed a set of clippers, and it was beginning to require daily combing.

So, I gave myself one objective for my lazy Saturday. Go into town, find a barber pole, peek into the shop to make sure that it was in fact a haircutting establishment (some in Korea offer … other services …), and get a haircut.

Well, I walked into town (for the exercise, as it’s about a half hour…) and started barber pole hunting. Lo, and behold! A barber pole! Both the back door and the front door were missing, and there seemed to be no stairwell to darkened upper rooms, so I could also assume that it was just a good old fashioned barber shop. (The picture of Jesus as the good shepherd was also comforting, but no guarantee. My host family members are clearly practicing Christians, and there are clearly some porno films in the back of their video store…) So, the ubiquitous hand motions and poor Korean/English conversation followed. I got across that I wanted a haircut (Why else would I be there?) and he, the lone barber who smelled heavily of nicotine, especially when he coughed, got across that I should sit down in one of the full sized leather chairs.

And he began to cut as I warily watched him in the mirror. He is a barber of the old school. No clippers. Just a comb, a pair of scissors, and a feel for his trade that can only come from years of experience and the daily pack of cigarettes. One thing I actually missed from the American barbers, though, was the conversation. Some people find this annoying. I like it. (This is probably because barbers generally don’t want to talk about themselves. They want to talk about me, a subject I adore. – Titian, thy name is Jeremiah.)

After the hair cut, which turned out fairly decent considering I couldn’t give him exact instructions, but also turned out very Korean, he asked if I’d like a shave. I indicated, No, just a trim and maybe a shave around the edges. We haggled a bit over clipper settings for the trim (Apparently, not that old school…), he trimmed, I watched when I could and blinked the flying beard hair out of my eyes when I couldn’t, and then he prepared the shave.

The shave that would occur with a straight blade razor and shaving cream that he mixed himself. (Apparently, very old school…) He applied the shaving cream not just around my beard and my cheek bones and neck and the back of head which is where a man is usually shaved if he has an obscene amount (glorious amount, according to one Jordan C.) of hair like I do, but also on my forehead. And I thought to myself, “Do I really have hair on my forehead? And if so, is it really the visible kind that would be necessary to shave with a straight blade razor, which is already a rather dangerous implement and making me nervous as this is the first time it has ever been applied to my epidermal layer even as I pray it will not be the first time it is applied to my jugular vein?” I could only assume that he was performing a traditional Korean act of hospitality—the frontal lobotomy.

I survived the shave, during which I noticed that his pinky fingernail was particularly long. I found out what that was for in the ensuing shampoo and rinse. (My scalp has never felt newer, nor has it ever been in as much pain.) I paid my 12,000 won (expensive for a haircut, but not by American standards, and considering the service, I feel worth it), had the obligatory conversation talking about where I was from and my level of Korean (non-existent), and headed out a newer, handsomer looking (oh, I’ve had compliments!) man.

Yet another daily life obstacle conquered. Now, if I can only bring myself to go back to such an establishment again…

(SIDE NOTE: The barber did one thing during the hair cutting process that I thought ingenious. He pinned the cloth in such a way that it would not only shield me from the falling hair, but also collect the hair from falling on the floor! Amazing, I thought! This man is wise beyond his years (though given his years, perhaps not). He will not have to waste time sweeping the floor when we are finished as he can just dump the hair into the trashcan! That is what I thought. That is, until the hair cut was finished, at which point he promptly dumped the hair on the ground and began sweeping. Sigh…)