Budget Cut

BUDGET CUT

By Larry Jer

Local Chinese merchants were never stingy with kind words on how my Mandarin language skills were progressing, but I knew better. I have asked for directions to the Foreign Biscuit when I sought a campus guesthouse; requested two pounds of sex when all I needed was one pound (not really, I was trying to buy a bunch of bananas); entered a bank and pressed a teller for one-day service when I thought I was in a photo shop to develop film.

It wasn't always the language. Occasionally the flip-flop of cultures can blindside you, too. Once (whew, this one is hard to admit), while in a sauna, starkers, I complained the shower cap had two big holes in it and that just wasn't going to keep anything dry. The attendant stared at me in silence, the type, I suspect, that exists only in deep space. Three beats . . . four . . . before he explained in comforting paternal tones that the "shower cap" was, in fact, plastic disposable underwear. Sigh. My learning curve more and more resembled a roller coaster.

Don't get me wrong, my time in China was not a tale of never-ending embarrassment nor was it simply a batch of misadventures. Between those peaks there was a different and fascinating everyday rhythm to learn. And like life, I learned as I went along.

A simple illustration: I found myself one day looking for a place to cut my hair. No, not earth shattering news: STOP THE PRESSES -- one of four million in the city of Shenyang needs a coif! But my instant illiteracy and guttural attempts at the language punctuated by pesky arm waving techniques gets one nowhere . . . slowly.

You can’t abandon the situation gracefully either. Once entering the bargain, it’s impossible for any solid Canadian to simply say, "forget the whole thing!" and show your heels. I am stubborn and if a haircut’s in the cards for the day, by God, that’s what I’m leaving with. You've heard the old axiom: The difference between a good haircut and a bad one? Two weeks.

What better place to do it than in China? With a billion people in the land, barbers should've had enough practice to do a top-notch job. Or have they? I’d already had a series of clips, the best ending in a bouffant/pompadour hybrid; and no offence to my therapist, I'm still working my way through the collective trauma.

Enough. This time, with military precision, I put into motion: OPERATION HANDSOME. First, consult a friend and get the necessary phrases. Then, reel possible scenarios through my mind as to what I should say and anticipate answers to what I might hear. A British neighbour told me he goes to a shop by the West Tower for his haircuts and the lady does a decent job. After the last few botched missions, "decent" equaled "satisfied."

On my resplendent red girl’s bike (don't ask!), I eased over to the market where the candy-striped barber pole flagged my destination. Upon entering, I saw a gentleman cutting a woman’s hair, and was told that I was next in queue.

Fine, although there was one niggling thing: didn’t my friend tell me the lady does a decent job? Who was that pretender? I pocketed my concern, waited patiently, and rehearsed my spiel silently.

There was some to-do as to who would cut my hair -- some fast lingo being bandied about -- but the situation resolved itself. The gent smiled a fat, toothy grin and ushered me into the chair with a game show flourish. Once Mr. Wang (I learned his name through polite small talk) got started, it was clear the cut wasn’t even close to what I asked for. I bit my protests because, really, I had no words to vocalize them.

Fifteen uncomfortable minutes later I was happily surprised with the result. It was a stylized kind of military cut, cropped short, shaved up along the sides and flattened on top, cube-ish; not what I expected but definitely stream-lined and convenient for the warm weather ahead. I declared on the spot, Mr. Wang was my barber henceforth.

I left the shop into bright sunshine. (Cue soaring music.) It felt good, however small it might seem, knowing that for the rest of my stay in China, a year plus, I had this one thing in order.

Three weeks later (my hair goes up faster than a fire made of straw), I strode confidently into the salon but where, I asked, was Mr. Wang.

The lady in the shop told me to wait and, moments later, she had fetched him. I assumed he was on a break. No fuss, he was here to save my moptop and that was enough. Another fine job. I thanked him and went on my way. Such a blessing, not having to find a new barber each time out.

My next trip found me again alone with the lady and again, I asked for Mr. Wang. She dutifully set off and returned with him in tow. My curiosity got the better of me and so, finally, I asked, "Mr. Wang, why aren’t you ever here when I come?"

"Oh, this is my wife's shop," he replied, "I sell tofu squares in the market across the street."

Appeared Jan/05 in Global Magazine (UK) on the back pages under "VERY BAD THINGS"