I went to get my hair cut on my birthday. I hadn’t had it done in a while, because well, I hate paying to get it cut. I mean, it’s not like I have a “do” so I don’t have to worry about it growing out. My general pattern is to get it cut to my shoulders and let it grow for a few years. When it’s too heavy, and it gives me a head ache, I get it cut again.

So off to the Vietnamase school of cosmetology I go, for an experience and a $5.00 hair cut.

I walk in, and immediately get the sensation of being foreign. I’ve entered a strange new land. I am the only white person in the room and a foot taller than anyone in the salon.

I am greated: “Hello! You wan’ hair cut?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You sign paper.”

The paper is to remind me that I am getting my hair cut at a reduced rate because it will be done by an advanced student of cosmetology. The school is not responsible for my satisfaction.

Fine, I live on the edge, I sign the paper.

Then I am asked, “How you wan’ hair?”
“I want three inches off the back, long layers in the front, and bangs.”
“Ah, okay, okay, no problem, you follow her to shampoo room.”

So I picked up my purse and when I turned to “follow her.” I couldn’t tell which one she was! Dash it! They are all small Asian women with black hair! So I wandered around until I found a room with a very large black man sitting on a very small chair. He was getting a pedicure. It seemed Alice-in-Wonderlandishly out of place. I said, “I’m looking for the shampoo room.” I was told to come in.

While my hair was shampooed I was told several times “How Fine, how good,” my hair was. “Your hair very fine! So much! Very nice!” I figured by “Fine” she meant “good,” and by good she probably meant full or healthy or thick, or some adjective that goes with “nice” for hair, but I suppressed the English teacher inside of me and didn’t correct her with a lesson on what “fine” means in connection with hair.

So my little Vietnamese student of cosmetology started cutting my hair. I could tell she was a little nervous, I think she even measured my hair to be sure she got three inches exactly. She was a little shaky and she asked, “You in hurry?” “No? Okay, I go slow, be very careful.”

So, an hour and a half later, after several consultations with other students and teachers, after every student there gathered around what turned out to be that day’s lesson plan (me and my long layers) the teacher/owner of the school finished off my $5.00 hair cut with a razor comb and a flourish. There was applause and someone spoke from the crowd to announce “He is a master with scissors!”

I half expected the scene to go hazy and an ancient blind master to appear saying, “Grasshopper, you must not let the scissors master you--- you must be the master--- of the scissors!”