Another Lesson Learned....

I remember it like it was yesterday.
It was one of those days that will forever be so embedded in my brain, heart, and soul that I'll never forget the emotions I was feeling.
It was a day when Brandon came home with flowers for me.
It was a day when I sat on the steps outside of our apartment crying my eyes out and not giving the slightest care in the world as to who saw me.

It was the day of the awful, dreaded, absolutely horrid, and worst hair cut ever.

I was about 5 or 6 months pregnant with Eden, so perhaps my emotions were on overdrive. Perhaps I exaggerated things a bit in my head. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't quite to bad as I made things out to be at the time. But, none the less, on that fretful day, every Chinese person wielding a pair of scissors went down in history as the worst hairstylist ever.

It started out a normal day. Well, I think. I don't remember anything else that happened that day except for our arrival at the hair salon. Brandon and I decided to go together that day because he needed a trim too. I'd been there before. They'd given me a simple trim. But this time I decided to step it up a notch. This time I'd learned how to say, "long layers" in Chinese. I'd learned how to say, "don't use the thinning scissors." This time I was going to walk away with my favorite hair cut ever, all because I could communicate clearly with Mr. Chinese Scissorhands.

I communicated what I wanted, or so I thought I did. And he started snipping away.
And then he snipped away some more.
And then he kept going. And then he kept going with the thinning shears.
And then he cut some more, until it looked like my blonde hair was strewn all throughout that Chinese hair salon.
And right as he'd given me some sort of mullet cut with my hair quite obviously well above my shoulders, he says to me, "hmmmm, I think you said you wanted LONG layers?"

Ummmmm yeah, Chinese Scissorhands. That's what I DID say!!

From that point on I behaved completely rationally as I yanked off the cape, grabbed my bag, shouted toward Brandon that I couldn't stay in that place any longer, that I was outta there, that he could pay or not pay for that haircut, and that I'd see him at home.

I jumped in the first taxi I saw. Muttered something unintelligible to the Chinese driver that as far as I was concerned was in cohorts with Chinese Scissorhands, and he sped home with a fuming white lady in his cab.

I stomped up our stairs, tears already streaming from my eyes because of my hackjob of a haircut, and then it hit me. Brandon and I had gone together to get our haircuts. And when we go together, I never take my keys. I also hadn't taken my phone that day either.
I plopped myself down on the stairs outside our front door and cried myself even more miserable. I began to count up every offense any Asian person had ever committed against me. At the top of the list was Chinese Scissorhands.

I imagined him back at the hair salon, doing a creepy laugh, as he danced around on top of my blonde remnants. Yes, I'm a little psycho like that.

A little while later our upstairs neighbor came meandering up the stairs. He could tell without asking that I was having a rough day. He gave me his cell phone to call Brandon. And then he sat with me on the stairs until Brandon got home. He hardly said a word. He just sat there, keeping me company. Maybe it's because he didn't know what to say to a crying, white lady. Maybe he felt weird and wanted to go up to his apartment. But for whatever reason, he just sat there, keeping me company, almost as if he could tangibly feel the culture shock emanating from my 6 month pregnant self.

He redeemed Asians in my mind. Not that they'd all offended me. Just Mr. Chinese Scissorhands. But something about that silent conversation we had in the stairwell that day, made me not write off every Asian I'd ever met.

However, since that day, I've committed to not getting my haircut in The Big Chicken ever again. I've mulled it over. I've almost done it. But I haven't been able to walk into another hair salon in China since that day. I've decided it's just better for my culture-shock factor to not get that high ever again.
I've waited until we've been back in the States for haircuts. I've waited until we've been in Thailand. And when we're in Thailand I go to the most elaborate and expensive mall in town to get my haircut because they speak English there and because something about English speakers gives me more confidence in their hair-cutting ability.

I know. When I say things like that, I'm a total American-snob.
I might as well walk around with an American Flag emblazoned on my shirt and a red, white, and blue scrunchie in my hair.

One of the things we've checked off our list since being in Bangkok is a haircut for me. I even paid for them to do a trim for Eden because again, I could communicate with them!

But somehow my lesson learned didn't translate for Salem. I mean, I've given him haircuts before, and granted they haven't been Sport'sClips caliber :), they've done the job. So yesterday, I figured it couldn't be hard for Lady Asian Scissorhands to give a little boy a trim.

They're only request was that he sit in Brandon's lap.


My only request should have been that they not do a hack-job of a hair cut. But alas, I failed to make that request clear.

(can I just mention the tuk-tuk in the background of the photo?! not that we'll have trouble remembering his first Asian hair cut...but the tuk-tuk photo makes it even better. :)

I didn't come home yesterday crying my eyes out. Fortunately, neither did Salem. He just came home intensely focused on demolishing his sucker that we'd bribed him with.

Once home, I stood him in the shower, sucker and all, and went to work with my own pair of scissors attempting to undo what had just been done and trying to regain some of my own sanity.

But there are some things, like entirely too short of a trim around the ears, that just can't be undone.

Fortunately his hair grows fast. Fortunately it was only a $3 hair cut. And fortunately, he's two years old and doesn't give a rip about his hair.

His mama, however, has learned this lesson twice. Though the first time should have been enough, maybe twice will be enough to convince me to steer clear of cheapy Asian hair cuts, and salons owned by Mr. Chinese Scissorhands.