One fine Sunday morning, I was coming down the ramp from the Tesco grocery store, when I was approached by a young Chinese man flaunting a clown-like mop of obviously peroxided hair, like so many Chinese teens are wearing these days. I marveled a bit at the idea of using peroxide in this day and age, when, at least in Canada, we learned back in the sixties that it's the worst possible way to lighten one's hair. But, I gingerly accepted his advertisement and offhandedly enquired as to the price of a fringe cut. He said it only cost 5RM.
So I followed him into the hair salon, never considering that he might actually be the hair-dresser! I was directed to sit in a chair and, when he came toward me with a pair of scissors, it slowly dawned on me that this crazy person with the bazaar, orange/yellow locks was acting hair-dresser! But, I quietly allowed him to cut my bangs. He did not do it the way I had requested and he seemed to have only one method, -- his own.
Then came the fatal mistake that I will rue to the end of my days. I asked him how much he charged for a cut. His answer was that the cut was included with hair colouring; only 67RM! I was hooked and going down fast. I asked,
"Could you put a few blonde streaks in my hair first then and cut it, but leave the back long?" He nodded enthusiastically as if all things were possible at his hands. (All things disastrous, anyway.)
Ok, so I chose the colour, a light blonde. He said something about bleach which I overlooked because I figured he knew what he was doing. Then, as things progressed, I chatted away about Canada, the coming Amero, the US dollar, the economy of Malaysia and he, nodding enthusiastically in agreement, continued working.
"You know that I just want streaks, right?" I asked. He agreed. Later, I confirmed,
"You know that I just want streaks, right?" Now I'm noticing that my entire head is being slathered in some sort of stuff that is beginning to bite a little. He looks at me with his head cocked. That look was wrong. It was like my kids got when they were caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
Warning bells are going off. I just can't hear them because I have these plastic flaps over my ears, for some unknown reason, but known to the so-called "hair-dresser" who had made a fair task of convincing me that he understood English enough to know what I had asked him to do!
"You know, HIGHLIGHTS?" I said, a little hysterically.
"OH!" he shook his head. "Sorry, la."
Sorry la? What do you mean? What have you done? He left me to sit while he cut another man's hair. Then, after the wash and rinse and conditioning, we were back at the chair. When the towel came off, I shrieked,
"OH MY GOD!"
He had turned me into HIM! He had peroxided all the colour out of my hair and stripped it of its natural oils.
I was shocked! I was distraught! It was difficult to breathe. A little voice in my head was getting louder and louder, saying, "Kill him! Kill him!"
"Cut it off! Cut if off!" I said, trying not to look in the mirror. "Get rid of it."
He nervously grabbed the scissors and started hacking away, to my, "More off! More!"
"But, then you gonna look like a boy..."
It was hopeless. I had tried to get "wispy" but that was way beyond any expectations one could have of this monorailed, hair ignorant imposter. However, he did manage to cut my hair. Short. Thank God.
I needed a hat! How could I go out in public? That evening, I had plans to go to Kuala Lumpur to a Christian ministry. It was humiliating. --Especially when I was unexpectedly invited to talk on stage!
The next morning, I awoke and the nightmare was still there. What to do? I remembered there was a hair salon right in the next street where I was staying in Kamayan Square, so I decided to pay them a visit.
They showed me hair swatches and when I asked how much the brown was, she said, "150RM."
What?
"I only have 100RM." (100RM was way too much, considering I had very little hair left.) She immediately lowered her price and "reluctantly" gave me the lower price. So, another young man coloured my hair in what we thought would be a darker brown.
When the towel came off this time, I nearly cried. Instead of helping the situation, it had made it worse. I was now a red-head. Not that I have anything against red-heads. I love red hair. Just not on me. It looked utterly and unforgivably insane. At my age!
I was crying in my soup. I was complaining to everyone I knew, writing online and messaging on my phone about my hair disaster. My friend, Laura invited me to come along with her to her regular hair salon on Thursday. That meant I had to wait three whole days. I hid in my room. When I had to go out in the hall, I skulked around, hoping nobody would see me.
Thursday finally came. I went to Laura's hair-dresser and got my hair coloured brown. This time, when the towel came off, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and said,
"I'm a real person, again. Thank you, God!"
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