The Bald Facts
“Bzzzzzzzz,” I say to the Chinese barber, gesturing in a hopefully clipperesque fashion. “Number two please.” I hold up two fingers as insurance and repeat: “Number two, Ok?” He nods and retrieves his clippers from a drawer. Before removing my glasses and reducing the whole scene to a blur, I decline to check that he's put on the correct guard, I just allow him to begin: big mistake.
Precisely one second after he has started, I know that it's bad. I can feel how close he's shaving and, as I squint at the vague haze of my reflection in the wall mirror, I can just about distinguish the canyon that has opened up in my hairline. Oh Christ, too late to say anything now; best just to let him get on with it.
Two minutes and a whole lot of “bzzzzzing” later, he's finished and I replace my glasses.
The barber is grinning at me in solicitous fashion. Two of the female hairwashing assistants are also regarding me with interest. I do my best to fashion a smile whilst gazing upon the naked pink dome shining back at me from the glass. Oh noooooooo! is the thought that wails in my mind like a pre-menstrual banshee. Oh noooooooo! Say it ain't soooooooo... I'm king of the slap heads!
“Yes, great!” I turn and beam at the barber, giving him a thumbs up; no need for us both to feel terrible now is there? No one does polite gratitude like the English: “That's perfect - thank you.” He nods and smiles, like many Chinese I've come into contact with, happy simply because I am happy. I pay my 15 RMB (about one pound fifty) and rub gingerly at the faint moleskin fuzz that is all that remains post scalp holocaust.
I say my goodbyes and make a swift exit, sloping off into the crisp afternoon air of late Autumn Chengdu. One question is dominating my thoughts:
I wonder what the Chinese for “hat shop” is?
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