Visiting Mr. Nice

Recently I visited the dentist in Kyrgyzstan which, even the thought of this visit, caused my cohorts to worry greatly for my well-being.  They seemed surprised by my relative serenity when facing dental treatment, but little did they know that of all the service providers who work on our bodies, it is not the dentist, or even the physician, who worries me the most: it is the barber.  It all goes back to childhood.  My father was my first barber, armed with a do-it-yourself home haircutting kit as part of our family's wise approach to home budgeting. While my father is a man of great and varied talents, haircutting might have been his weakest skill. I admit I was a very poor customer, fearful, squirming, and crying, but the day he cut my ear with his scissors causing blood to spill everywhere was the day my mother put her foot down and ended my father's home barber career, much to the relief of all parties.

Not that the professional barber was much better.  I vividly remember a barber in the coastal town we lived in when I was a child, who would cough down the back of your neck every couple minutes, breath smelling of whisky or some other potent beverage.  Then there was the barber, when we lived in the Columbia Basin--the only haircut he would give anyone who entered his shop was an ultra-short, Marine Corps style buzzcut.  I was very young at the time and I don't remember his exact words, but it was something about refusing to give people "hippie haircuts."

The barbers I have visited in my adult life have possessed varying degrees of skill, but what they have shared in common is an unpleasant and unyielding political extremism.  African-Americans, Mexicans, Liberals, Foreigners, Arabs, Muslims, Democrats, Chinese (usually called "Orientals" in the barber vocabulary), Gay people (in the barber vocabulary usually called...well, never mind), Commies, Feminists, Tree Huggers, Hippies (of course), Humanists, and Godless Atheists (barbers can be a little redundant), are the usual targets of the male American barber in the tiresome, never-ending speeches you have to listen to while getting your haircut in the United States.  I always remain silent because I believe it's never good policy to argue with people wielding razor blades and other sharp objects. Unfortunately, though, my barbers would never quiet down, because with my luck, there is always the waiting customer sitting in the shop who speaks up, seconding the barber's thoughts and encouraging the speeches to continue. It makes me wonder if every barber college has a secret political propaganda class in its curriculum designed to indoctrinate rookie barbers in negative, extremist thought. No wonder I prefer visiting the dentist, or even the proctologist, where at least your misery is usually silent.

Visiting a barber in another country, while blessedly free of political talk, or any talk at all, presents its own challenges.  When you go to a barber you can't communicate with, it's like a game of Russian Roulette: there's a five in six chance everything will be fine, but there's also that one in six chance your barber thinks you're telling him you want your hair dyed orange.  There are things you can do to reduce the risk.  Like when I lived in Japan, I would have one of the bi-lingual Japanese teachers I worked with write out instructions to the barber on a piece of paper.  I would bring the paper into the barber shop and hand it to the staff of four barbers who would, before cutting my hair, all huddle up, gesture emphatically, and spend about five minutes in heated consultation on how they should deal with my hair as if they were debating who would win the Grand Sumo Tournament. Fortunately, none of the teachers I worked with was a prankster, and they always did their best to represent my wishes faithfully, so I managed to escape my time with Japanese barbers relatively unscathed.

Now you know why I am reluctant to go to the barber, wherever it is I find myself, and why I am always a little anxious before going to get my hair cut.  The first haircutters I visited in Kyrgyzstan were the ones near my apartment.  They weren't barbers, but a group of female hairdressers. Ironically, in the two previous times I had visited they were the ones who found my visits unpleasant, as everyone had a look of consternation whenever I walked into their establishment, as though a potential armed robber had entered their midst. Today, when I stopped by, the entire shop was in a panic to see me.  It turns out the cashier who speaks English and always translates my wishes had the day off.  "Aaaaaah..."  "Eeeeeeeeh..."  "Ohhhhh..." was what they said when they saw me.  "Well, maybe I'll come back later," is what I said just as I was leaving.

That's when I remembered seeing a barber shop about a half a kilometer from my apartment.  The name of the place is "Mr. Nice."

I walked into the place and the first thing I noticed was the shop's gigantic logo.  Suddenly, I was a bit anxious as Mr. Nice really didn't look all that nice and, furthermore, I wasn't particularly impressed with his grooming.

But, I was in the shop and there was no turning back as I certainly didn't want to face the wrath of Mr. Nice that I would have encountered had I left.

Luckily, one of Mr. Nice's barbers could translate my instructions to the barber who had drawn the short straw and had been assigned my case.  My haircutting experience took about an hour.  I received a shampoo, had my hair cut with three different scissors and two different clippers, got my neck shaved and, for what reason I don't know, received an emphatic three-minute massage of my neck and shoulders. Then, in a custom peculiar to Kyrgyz haircutting establishments, I had my hair shampooed a second time, and received a styling and hair drying session, followed by hair gel, and hair spray.  I had won another game of Russian Roulette as this experience turned out to be one of the empty-chambered, five out of six. All that for less money than a Supercut or a twenty-minute rant from an angry American barber.

As I left, the manager provided me one final, unexpected surprise.  He gave me a copy of Mr. Nice's Spring Music Collection, Volume 2 as a parting gift.  The Spring Music Collection consists of 33 tracks of assorted pop, reggae, and hip hop music.  It turns out Mr. Nice isn't as mean as he looks; he actually is pretty nice.  And I now have another story to add to my anecdotes of barbers.