I got my hair Mao'ed down
There’s been a good reason I’ve neglected my blog, which is that my stupid web-hosting company (it’s called 1t3.com) is a total sham, and have left sushipanda.com hanging out to dry in no-server land. I’ve done a some subsequent research on the web and it turns out that no one likes these guys, so if you ever decide to actually get your own website, stay away from 1t3, they’ll take you up the river, strip your clothes off, make you dance around the smoldering pit of your own expectations, and then eat moldy tree bark. I’ve been there, it’s not fun.
Anyway, for that one person out there who reads these entries and is actually interested in my happenings here in Shanghai…one day I will find out who you are. I will also say that the past week and a half has been incredibly eventful. Let me give you the rundown:
1. I got a haircut
2. I ate some food.
3. I scratched my head a few times
4. I ate some more food.
5. I turned on some music and danced for a good 8 minutes one morning in my room when no one was looking. I was with no one. (“No One,” of course, is the name I lovingly gave my blow-up Whoopi Goldberg doll, but you guys knew that already)
Exciting stuff, huh? In actuality, one of my big fears before I came here was getting a haircut. As all of you know, my head is of unwieldy ballast, and I take great care in making sure that, with so much surface area to cover, the hair is evenly trimmed and takes on a semblance of symmetry. Being in a foreign land forced understandable trepidation upon me, and so it was with great anxiety that I entered a neighborhood hair salon one morning a few days ago to get inaugurated into the Chinese Wacked-out Hair Club for Men.
So let me tell you something about salons here in Shanghai: you don’t just come here to get your hair cut. Usually, patrons lie back and get a nice shampoo-down, followed by a neck massage and a full back massage, with the haircut as the grand finale. On a day prior to my trip to the salon, Mike Wong, wallowing in all the glory of his latent homophobia, strictly instructed me never to have someone of the male persuasion do all these things to me. I looked at his own goofy haircut (sorry Mike), and thought I’d take a chance and go another direction.
One valuable lesson I’ve learned since coming here to Shanghai, which I should have learned a long time ago in the States: If you have corrected vision and have contact lenses, make sure you wear them when you get your hair cut by a strange man with crazy orange skunky hair. I had to remove my glasses, and all I ended up seeing was a big blurry mess in the mirror. Of course, that’s how it usually looks when I have my glasses on, too, but at least I could make out my hair. I was floating and lost at sea, with nothing but the dude’s big-ass hands to guide me towards looking Shanghai-chic.
Did I say Shanghai-chic? I meant Shanghai-chic…ken, because that’s how I looked leaving the place. In fact, I decided to get into the spirit and clucked all the way home. Yup, I did the whole “arms under armpits” thing as well. No one really paid me any attention except that crazy old lady who came after me with a huge butcher knife and saying something about “kung pao,” but I waddled way too fast for her.
Apparently, the hair thing is a big rite of passage. I guess some people try to fit into new environments by changing things like the clothes that they wear or their patterns of speech. I ended up choosing, not by my own volition, to get a really stupid looking haircut so I could fit in with the rest of the people here. Some of my other attempts at assimilation have met with more disastrous results. No joke, the current fashion statement here in Shanghai is for people to walk out on the street in their fucking pajamas. I’ve heard a number of theories about why they do this, all of them surround the concept of “status.” People ostensibly feel that by showing others that they don’t care about how they look in public, somehow that fact alone will convince the public that they have just enough personal wealth to be that indifferent.
I looked at the person telling me this story, and said, “Wait, by ‘wealth’ you mean ‘crazy as shit,’ right?”
“No, that’s really the fashion here.”
Well, when in China, do as the crazy. I thought maybe I could fit in a little more than I have been by wearing my nightly attire out into public as well. It was a Tuesday, so I put on my zircona-studded green alligator thong, my Nikes, and my baby-blue baby-tee and hit the biggest shopping street in Shanghai to show off just how wealthy I was.
I really didn’t get why they had to call in the military. Shit, now THAT was embarrassing!
I’m actually a little sick and downed a couple of NyQuil a few moments ago, so it’s getting harder and harder for me to lift up my fingers to type this. I wanted to write some more about this epic battle of the cab-drivers that I was involved in, and also about the half-bottle of scotch I took and gave right back in the most biologically violent of ways on Saturday night, but I think I’m going to crawl into my bed, curl up, and dream about Donald Rumsfeld in a Jacuzzi with a big tub of Hershey’s chocolate syrup. I know you guys know the dream! *wink*
Ok, too much NyQuil. This kicks ass.
Anyway, for that one person out there who reads these entries and is actually interested in my happenings here in Shanghai…one day I will find out who you are. I will also say that the past week and a half has been incredibly eventful. Let me give you the rundown:
1. I got a haircut
2. I ate some food.
3. I scratched my head a few times
4. I ate some more food.
5. I turned on some music and danced for a good 8 minutes one morning in my room when no one was looking. I was with no one. (“No One,” of course, is the name I lovingly gave my blow-up Whoopi Goldberg doll, but you guys knew that already)
Exciting stuff, huh? In actuality, one of my big fears before I came here was getting a haircut. As all of you know, my head is of unwieldy ballast, and I take great care in making sure that, with so much surface area to cover, the hair is evenly trimmed and takes on a semblance of symmetry. Being in a foreign land forced understandable trepidation upon me, and so it was with great anxiety that I entered a neighborhood hair salon one morning a few days ago to get inaugurated into the Chinese Wacked-out Hair Club for Men.
So let me tell you something about salons here in Shanghai: you don’t just come here to get your hair cut. Usually, patrons lie back and get a nice shampoo-down, followed by a neck massage and a full back massage, with the haircut as the grand finale. On a day prior to my trip to the salon, Mike Wong, wallowing in all the glory of his latent homophobia, strictly instructed me never to have someone of the male persuasion do all these things to me. I looked at his own goofy haircut (sorry Mike), and thought I’d take a chance and go another direction.
One valuable lesson I’ve learned since coming here to Shanghai, which I should have learned a long time ago in the States: If you have corrected vision and have contact lenses, make sure you wear them when you get your hair cut by a strange man with crazy orange skunky hair. I had to remove my glasses, and all I ended up seeing was a big blurry mess in the mirror. Of course, that’s how it usually looks when I have my glasses on, too, but at least I could make out my hair. I was floating and lost at sea, with nothing but the dude’s big-ass hands to guide me towards looking Shanghai-chic.
Did I say Shanghai-chic? I meant Shanghai-chic…ken, because that’s how I looked leaving the place. In fact, I decided to get into the spirit and clucked all the way home. Yup, I did the whole “arms under armpits” thing as well. No one really paid me any attention except that crazy old lady who came after me with a huge butcher knife and saying something about “kung pao,” but I waddled way too fast for her.
Apparently, the hair thing is a big rite of passage. I guess some people try to fit into new environments by changing things like the clothes that they wear or their patterns of speech. I ended up choosing, not by my own volition, to get a really stupid looking haircut so I could fit in with the rest of the people here. Some of my other attempts at assimilation have met with more disastrous results. No joke, the current fashion statement here in Shanghai is for people to walk out on the street in their fucking pajamas. I’ve heard a number of theories about why they do this, all of them surround the concept of “status.” People ostensibly feel that by showing others that they don’t care about how they look in public, somehow that fact alone will convince the public that they have just enough personal wealth to be that indifferent.
I looked at the person telling me this story, and said, “Wait, by ‘wealth’ you mean ‘crazy as shit,’ right?”
“No, that’s really the fashion here.”
Well, when in China, do as the crazy. I thought maybe I could fit in a little more than I have been by wearing my nightly attire out into public as well. It was a Tuesday, so I put on my zircona-studded green alligator thong, my Nikes, and my baby-blue baby-tee and hit the biggest shopping street in Shanghai to show off just how wealthy I was.
I really didn’t get why they had to call in the military. Shit, now THAT was embarrassing!
I’m actually a little sick and downed a couple of NyQuil a few moments ago, so it’s getting harder and harder for me to lift up my fingers to type this. I wanted to write some more about this epic battle of the cab-drivers that I was involved in, and also about the half-bottle of scotch I took and gave right back in the most biologically violent of ways on Saturday night, but I think I’m going to crawl into my bed, curl up, and dream about Donald Rumsfeld in a Jacuzzi with a big tub of Hershey’s chocolate syrup. I know you guys know the dream! *wink*
Ok, too much NyQuil. This kicks ass.
posted by sushipanda at 4:48 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home