I was depressed, and I needed a haircut; as far as I could tell, these
two conditions were unconnected. I had only noticed one barber’s shop
since coming to Pattaya, so I went there. The single chair was
unoccupied. Bravely I sat down, and took off my glasses, rendering
myself nearly blind. “Ah, curly hair” came the barber’s voice, savouring
the word “curly”. I agreed. I felt him fingering my fading, farang
locks, and then was aware of his thumb resting on the bald spot on the
top of my scalp. “Oh,” he said, “no hair”. I had to agree, albeit
reluctantly.
He set about his task cheerfully, and we made sporadic attempts at
conversation. There was no point in keeping my eyes open, so I shut them
and I relaxed. Eventually, all activity seemed to stop, and I heard his
voice say, “Getting old. Need glasses”. I admitted that this was another
moment of real truth, and I leaned forward so that I could see what he
had done to my coiffure. It was at that point that I realised that his
final comment referred not to me but to himself, and that he also was
reaching for his glasses to see what effect he had created.
I decided that it was time for me not to inspect the probable damage but
to leave with as much dignity as I could muster. The barber had other
ideas. With alarming speed, he thrust me back into the chair,
re-adjusted the towel on my shoulders, and with a long-pointed pair of
scissors made an unprovoked attack on the hairs in my nostrils, crying,
“Too long, too long” as he did so. For an encore, he delved into my
ears. I had not recovered from this numbing shock before his comb and
electric clippers surged across my eyebrows. I was by this time nearly
hysterical, and so could offer little or no resistance as he pulled me
upright in the chair. With strong, deft hands, he pushed my head towards
my knees and began to massage my neck and shoulders. From that position,
there was clearly no escape.
But he let me live. Indeed, as he transferred his attention to my upper
arms, he became positively genial. “Strong” he said as he pummeled my
biceps. “Swimming?” Once again, I agreed. Not only was it true; it felt
safer. He tweaked and clicked each of my fingers in turn, and them with
a final flourish he bounced his cupped hands onto the back of my neck,
creating a hollow sound which signaled the end of the performance. The
towel was removed from my shoulders, and the barber stood back with the
quietly confident air of a true professional who feels he has done a
good job. An anxious look in the mirror revealed that he had.
I left, lighter on the head by several grams of hair, lighter in the
pocket by so few bahts that I thought he must have made a mistake, and
lighter in the heart than I had been for days. I wish my hair would grow
more quickly; I shall surely go back to him again.
“Chris”
