On the 27, Maren and I decided to let our wild sides fly free. We went to a Chinese hair salon for new ‘dos. The hairstylists were thrilled to see us: most of them were male, though only one displayed the obvious signs of a flamer: a fitted satin cowl neck shirt squeezed his torso.
Maren and I quickly leafed through hairstyle magazines until we found a picture of a lady with pink hair. We pointed at it and then grabbed specific locks of our hair, signifying streaks. They seemed surprised that we wanted pink but went along with it. They sat us down and began to muss our hair. I had four men and a lady examining my hair, touching it like it was an alien, mesmerizing substance, chatted constantly in Mandarin; Maren and I couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all. Finally, two men started dying the specific sections of my hair, without pinning up the rest of my hair: signs of the quality of the salon, but hey, it’s China: that’s to be expected. Some of the dye dripped onto another part of my hair and my hairstylist freaked out in Mandarin but the hair was close enough to the pink streak so it was easy to fix. Usually, I’m very particular about my hair but that night I was just living in the moment and soaking it all in.
The hairstylists spoke little English and we spoke even less Mandarin and we could therefore only communicate with body language. They had giggle fits, as did we, probably all for the same reason: the situation was so humorously ridiculous, and it was great. After our hair was dyed, they couldn’t believe how pink our streaks were. “It’s very pink!” they said, and we nodded, triumphant. It was just as we wanted—fuchsia pink streaks. One lady was comparing her hair color to Maren’s, and looked very jealous. No doubt they are unaccustomed to hair dye turning out so bright, since their hair is black.
My man washed my hair and massaged my scalp (glorious!) and then sat me down for a haircut—for which I had asked, but he had seemed so negative about it that I didn’t think it would happen. I showed him a picture in a magazine and a new guy (a real schweye kuh) cut my hair.
He cut my hair, blow dried it, and styled it—for everything, it was only 55 yuan, or about $8—a steal of a deal.
There was a screen on wall and they pulled up Google translator to communicate. They told me that “the shop guy like you. Say you look good.” Then, aloud, my hairdresser said, “He wants to kiss you.” I was shocked, so I didn’t really react. I think he took this as me not understanding him, so he tried to correct himself: “He wants to kiiiillll you. Yes, he wants to kill you.”
“He wants to kill me?” I said, laughing.
“Yes!” he said animatedly. “He wants to kill you. You should punch him in the face.” He swung his fist for emphasis.
I said, still laughing, “Oh, okay. I’ll punch him in the face ‘cause he wants to kill me.”
Funniest experience ever—gotta love the Chinese.
I have always wanted pink streaks, and I’m stoked to finally have them. I have them under a layer of natural hair so that my hair can grow out and the roots won’t be visible. The dye job isn’t the greatest, but it’ll do. I have pink hair! And I’m in China! Life is good.
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