A Day at the Salon

There's a reason in America why whites don't see blacks in the seat next to them in the salon. It's not a matter of segregation; it's a matter of hair type. This isn't, however, something we become conscious of until we attempt to get our hair done in another country. More specifically, if I'd had it done in Italy, I'd be fine, slightly concerned at first but likely walking out feeling like I just walked out of Italian Vogue. In China, however, I'm in an Eastern country, one in which every single salon goer has straight black hair. To them, a perm is their way of setting themselves apart from the norm; coloring your hair means you go an amber shade of red.
Me? I'm trying to have it styled and colored-- blonde. Not dirty blonde, not ash blonde, not platinum blonde, but Sheryl Crow blonde. I might as well be Grace Jones seeking the assistance of Kate Winslett's hair stylist. Hmmm... well, I am desperate;
I haven't had my hair cut in six months. My dead ends are as bountiful as walls in a rat maze. And my mousy brown roots are far more than exposed. It's like a bird's nest. When I had my hair down in August in September the stylist misread what I wanted and gave me thin streaks of blonde-- that was a hell of a contrast to my dark chocolate layers. So it's a base of dark chocolate, some twigs of hay in it, and a halo of milk chocolate around it. My hair is a wreck.
I thought I'd never go back to blond. Living in Sarasota I went dark brown, partially to set myself apart from the myriad blondes. Now in China, where everyone has black hair and where they look upon Americans with the relish of spotting celebrities. They stop, stare and more than often ask where you're from. So I decide to play the part. Going back to blond sets me apart again. The weirdest part of it? I will feel better about being a Westerner by having blonde hair.
Now, mind you, there are no blondes around here. None. Not a one. Seeing a blonde Asian would be sillier than watching a blonde Beyonce or Mary J. Blige strut their stuff. It's completely unnatural and slightly alarming like a white elephant.
Well, I have apples. And I must do something with my hair. I'm a novelty here anyway; I might as well have fun with it. I proceed.
Through Belinda, a native who acts as my translator, I tell the salon owner what I want: which style and what hues. He browses intently some photos I've brought to illustrate the point. I and I select shades on a swatch. But then another level of weariness sets in.
My salon sessions typically last three hours. There's a lot of work to be done on a woman with hair almost to her waist. This guy, however, tells me it'll take about an hour. That's not a good sign, I think, unsure if I'm disguising fear or laughter with my nonchalance. What steps will he skip to achieve this in one hour? Is he gonna chop off my hair in one whack and pour peroxide on it?
After a while, an hour in, things are going well. He's coloring the whole head, strand by strand by strand. The acrid scent almost stirs atmospheric waves like a mirage around my head. That's a good sign. He is indeed using those dangerous agents I'm accustomed to and he's being thorough. Until he starts to wrap my head in saran wrap.
"What is this?" I ask, pointing to the three inch stripe along my natural part. How is this stripe gonna look natural? How is he planning to address this?
This man, whose hair is longer than mine, bends down at my left side. He points to his watch as if to indicate that my color will have to stay on for a certain period of time. Um, this I know. I've been coloring my hair for 25 years. That does not directly address the fact I'm afraid of looking like a skunk.
Because I don't speak Mandarin Chinese and he doesn't speak English, we call Belinda, who's eating dinner with my supervisor in their apartment about a block away. I communicate my concerns to her over the cell phone. (I'm reminded of a National Public Radio story I heard recently about an African who'd recently become a doctor and was relegated to give his first baby delivery to a breech baby-- with the assistance of trans-Atlantic cell phone call to America.)
I'm calmed when Belinda speaks to the salon owner, who then returns the phone to me. He's going to add a different coloring agent to that part, but because that's a lighter brown that the rest of your hair, it won't take as long to color. She goes into more detail and, thinking back to the processes I underwent when I was blonde, it starts to make sense. I sit back and relax as the coloring agents wash away my dark chocolate. The salon staff caters to me, putting on CCTV in English. The minutes go by.... He adds another color to my skunk stripe.
Finally I'm whisked away to the sink. Here I'm reminded of the scene in Out of Africa in which, during a safari, Robert Redford's Denys Finch-Hatton washes the hair of Meryl Streep's Karen Dinesen. Oh god I needed this!
Then I see my hair. There is the dark chocolate. There is the skunk stripe. What the hell! I call Belinda again. Through her, the salon owner finally asks, "Do you have your hair colored in the last couple of months?"
"Six months ago. This is something he should not only have seen but should have planned for before he started!" We start to discuss how much I'm paying him, if I should pay him, when I should pay him, and what are the alternatives. We decide to color it again.
Four hours later, I walk out of that salon feeling like an orange. I still have a skunk stripe, but he somehow blended it into the rest of my crown. I still have brown hair, but it's not dark chocolate anymore. However, I have no more split ends and it feels delicious in my hands. At the salon they love it. At Belinda's she loves it. At my apartment, my roommate loves it.
"It's been a long time since you've seen a non-Asian head, eh?" I'm thinking. "I'm an orange! You could eat my hair! I'm a big piece of fruit!"
At least I get to return to the salon for yet another attempt to get it to the proper shade. It will take a while to achieve the hair colors I seek. But this patient and passivist salon owner was good to me. He did try in earnest. He even offered to color it for a third time until I told Belinda, again on the cell phone, I'm not letting him fry my head to achieve what I'm looking for. This I do recall from the time I chopped off my hair and bleached it platinum in my Sharon Stone days. I decide to wait a week or so, let my hair get accustomed to this coloring at first. I'll get there. But first I'll play with my pseudo-celeb stature by playing the orange. If Beyonce and Jennifer Lopez can go blonde, I can go orange.