Hair Cut the Thai way

Being a man who is follically challenged, I do not find it difficult to cut my own hair.  Or rather use the trimming shears I bought in Copenhagen in 1998, but that's another story!

A quick trim using the number three trimming gauge usually does the trick in about 5 minutes - saving the laborious trip to the hairdressers and saving anything from about £5 to whatever you are prepared to pay at the barbers.

However, on my travels I like to sample a barber experience in whatever country I am visiting.  I have had my hair cut in the United States, Laos, Singapore, Hong Kong, Shenzen (China), Thailand, Denmark, Spain and had cut-throat razor shaves in India and Nepal.  Every experience was different, but a trip to the barbers in Thailand is a pleasure.

I do not do glitz and style - I prefer basic, and the barber shop in Trakan Phutphon (about 18 kilometres from Thamuang) is just that.  It could be up market as far as your average Thai gent is concerned, but for me it is just the job.

The shop is open to the street.  It has three well worn (out) chairs facing faded mirrors.  The shelf in front of the chair has a plastic plate rack the type used to drain dishes after washing them.  On the top rack is tin mug, which I presume has water in it.  Next to this is a bar of shaving soap, a mildewed shaving brush, new packets of razor blades and a simple razor holder.  There is a collection of dirty towels with smears of caked-dried soap containing thousands of dark bristles from the morning's shaves so far.  The bottom rack has today's newspaper with a glob of dried soap from the shelf above smartly covering the face of whoever it is that made the headlines today.  There is also a small collection of plastic combs similar to the ones you get in Christmas crackers from Marks and Spencer back home.  The shelf itself is covered in a weary blue formica with a white pattern fighting for attention with white patches created from years of picking up and putting down the tools of the trade; the barber's ironmongery.  There is a minimalist display consisting of three pairs of scissors (big, medium and small), the electric razor and mixed bag of plastic trimming gauges.  Lucky for me he has a number three gauge and proudly shows me the number before slotting it into his shears, which I notice still have the trimmings of his last customer embedded in them.  I chuckle to myself that the number three is the only recognisable communication between us.

A combination of towels and covers is wrapped around my neck and held in place with peg.  I am certain that the last time these rags were anywhere near fresh was at the beginning of last week, they have been washed and used so many times they are transparent in places.

The shears spark (literally) into life and the shearing begins.  Clumps of grey and white hair fall onto the threadbare towels covering my chest.  I notice that the barber has fixed a mirror onto the wall behind me so that I can see what is going on at the back of my head.  This is a great idea that I have never seen in the UK, I would be more impressed if my eyesight could meet the challenge of seeing the action.  Sadly my spectacles lie on the shelf next to the newspaper.

All the while the barber is chatting away to Khamma who sits patiently as my chaperon, interpretor and dutiful wife.  Goodness what they are saying but I think most of it is about me.

Shearing complete, now the trimming with comb and scissors followed by a shave of the neck hairs with the trusty simple cut throat.  The barber wets the dodgy looking shaving brush in the murky looking soapy water festering away in the tin mug.  A thin veil of lather tries hard to make its presence felt on the skin on the back of my neck.  The coolness of the water feels surprisingly and worryingly fresh.  The barber then takes a fresh blade, snaps off the ends and inserts it into the simple razor holder.  At this point I feel vulnerable, but with skill honed from shaving the beards of thousands of Thai men who have passed this same way, he quickly scrapes away the wispy hairs that only a few week's before were standing on end at the success of the Team GB in the Olympics.
Then the chair tilts back at an alarming angle, and I am instantly reminded of trips to the dentist.  I notice the ceiling has being thoughtfully decorated by stapling sheets of paper to whatever flimsy substance lies behind  and the rust brown colour of the staples blending into the dusty once white paper adding texture, like a Damien Hirst artwork (this might be an exaggeration on my part or my vivid imagination - what do you think?).   The pre-shaving process is repeated on my face, or at least parts of it.  The dirty soapy water supposedly making it easy for the blade to cut my beard has a perfume of staleness lingering as he drags the blade across my face.  After a few more strokes of the blade, it did feel as if the stubble was beginning to surrender rather than being quietly taken away, but to my relief there was no blood drawn!

Just as I thought all was finished, I have a mildly scented cold towel unexpectedly swipe my face, neck and skull followed by a vigorous neck and shoulder massage.  Job done! Cost 40 bhat - about 90 pence.  At that price I would go every week. A pure pleasure.