After
traversing the streets, balconies, and the narrow expanses of broken cement
called sidewalks, we failed to find the barber. Through directions in English
half as broken as they were asked for in Nepali, we found ourselves a small
barbershop overlooking the city of Mahrajgunj. My company, Emily and Lyle, left
to get power converters, and I waited patiently as the barber cut the little
hair that his current client entered with. He finished. Despite the dirty looks
that I received on the half-mile walk down, due to my hair not nationality, I
was not prepared for what was in the barber’s eyes as I approached. I was a
pain. He was a writer, and I was a book burner. I began pointing to pictures and
drew invisible lines in my hair like a cutoff section of a children’s book.
After a couple of minutes I sat down and gave into the fact that he was going
to do whatever he wanted with my hair, it was almost like we were speaking
different languages.
Last
afternoon, one of the Pre-Service directors and I talked about Nepali business,
where it came out that my now shoulder-length hair isn’t professional in Nepali
culture. I’ve suspected this of the culture after a few conversations with
Nepali’s and past volunteers. I’m an ambassador, and even though I’d often
shrug off the question from friends with something like “it’s the Peace Corps,
you have to look like a hippie to get the interview,” it takes professionalism
to succeed here; and to succeed here I would do anything.
Still, hair
is a powerful symbol, from the biblical Samson, to certain cartoon characters
who’s hair grows and becomes blonder as they increase in strength and kung-fu
might. For me, it is a simple nod to the wild inside that I so appreciate.
After a quick call to Melaina I was relieved that this wouldn’t end our
relationship, and I set out with my new friends Lyle and Emily, thinking that
two years in rural Nepal would prove better fuel for my wild side than what
then hung heavy from my head.
A flurry of
concentrated chaos ensued, as his hands became his comb and scissor. The deep
snarls in my head denying his comb kept his irritation palpable. Thirty minutes
later and I passed judgment that this was the best haircut I’ve received. I
gave up words with this man long ago. Thinking it an opportune chance to
practice Nepali, I said “Mero naam Luke ho. Tapaiko naam k ho?” His only
response to my stab at introductions was a deep exhale. After that, I didn’t
even bother asking how many people were in his family, even though I just
learned it. He moved the small hand mirror and “Ramro cha” very good, I agreed.
Then
something happened, I choose to view this as the man’s self proclaimed service
to his country. It was the initial conversion of a longhaired foreigner into
someone acceptable in Nepalese society. As the cutting of the hair concluded,
he began grabbing my hair and quickly running through it with unrelenting force
and rhythm. He would beat the back of my head with his fists, and then massage
the perpetrated areas. Some of it hurt, some was undeniably pleasurable. As he
whacked my head odd clicking sounds emitted from his hands. I stared in the
mirror with bizarre amazement as my vision distorted then focused at each
impact. He held my chin and shook me side to side until my newly cut hair stood
from all ends, almost electrocuted like my mystified mind, my baffled brain.
The process concluded after half an hour with a deep face massage, centered
around my eyes. He pulled my eyelids in a final crescendo; as I opened them I
saw the Nepal that maybe he wanted me to. I got up and paid what we agreed on,
two hundred rupees, around two American dollars.
Going
into a barbershop, you can predict how you’ll look and feel as you exit, and
the steps that took you up there. Here in Nepal, I was enchanted and stunned as
I was smacked around and altered. Some of it was good, some bad, some familiar,
some foreign, some hurt, some the opposite, I witnessed the most bizarre of
simple feats. I imagine I will look back and say something similar of my years
here
