Foggy Day

We had another foggy day this morning when we were riding the staff bus to school. While it's often foggy in the mornings here, there have been two days in which the fog was so thick we couldn't see anything around us as we drove through the streets of Suzhou. A couple of weeks ago the fog was so dense that the bus driver had to honk at each intersection to make sure he wouldn't run into anyone, or them into us. You might be asking why people continued to drive, ride bikes and scooters, and walk across streets in these conditions, but in China that is like asking, well, like asking "why" about anything around here. It's just the way it is, and why change your habits just for safety's sake? Safety is really not at the forefront of anyone's mind around here. That might explain the worker sweeping in the street today in the fog. When he became visible only a few feet in front of our bus, our driver was skilled enough to swerve. The worker didn't even flinch.

Even in the fog, cars, busses and scooters don't turn on their headlights. I read somewhere that the Chinese believe that turning on car headlights will drain the batteries. The most dangerous time of day to walk around here, in my opinion, is at dusk, when you can barely see the cars, and they surely can't see you at all. I've been in taxis careening through traffic with no headlights at all, when the sun was already past the horizon. If that's how they operate every day, a day of fog is not going to change that. Don and I were on the bus laughing about the lack of headlights, when, lo and behold! we spotted a car with lit headlights. Maybe they thought this was prudent in their case, because they were driving on the wrong side of the road against traffic. In the fog. Safety first!

My first haircut

I finally got up the guts to get my hair cut and colored. I had it done just before we left for China, knowing that I wouldn't want to worry about it for a while, but I never intended to go for four months without a haircut. My hair just got longer and longer. Don finally said, "Uh, Lee, you probably need to get a haircut." Well, when your husband notices that it's too long, it's time.

My friend, Sue, recommended a guy, and her hair looks great, so I took her advice. I've been worried that when I got my hair colored it would end up really dark, and I've seen a number of expats with really dark and obviously dyed hair. My thinking is, the stylists are used to dark hair here, almost exclusively, so that's why all the dark dye-jobs. But Sue's hair is blonde and it looked really nice, so I thought I'd give it a try. She said the guy, Jack (Chinese people often have a second English name they use with us expats) spoke some English, so I figured I would be able to communicate. For a backup I asked my Chinese tutor how to say things like "I want the same color" and "I want the same cut, just shorter". I thought I was ready and so I called and set up the appointment. Jack did indeed speak some English, and I used the two ensuing days to get myself in the right frame of mind.

See, I really hate getting my hair cut. I don't like being fussed over, I don't like having strangers running their fingers through my hair, and I don't like being at someone else's mercy quite so much. So whenever I'm going for a cut or color, I have to get myself prepped mentally for the experience. Also, I really resent the time spent sitting there, and since I've started coloring my hair, the time spent in the salon chair has quadrupled. I try to tell myself it's an opportunity to catch up on my reading.

So when I arrived I was ready, well except I forgot to learn or bring the Chinese phrases I'd asked my teacher about. And I didn't bring a picture like I intended. And I really wasn't in the mood to read for three hours. And I just really didn't want to be there. But I decided to "be a woman" and deal with my fate.

Jack did speak a bit of English, and he seemed to understand me when I explained through hand motions and modified English that I wanted the same color, he even held my hair up to the sample to show me. And I was pretty sure that showing him the "scissors" motion with my fingers and showing him where to cut was communicating just fine.

Well, the scissors thing worked. I really like the length, and he knew how to cut my hair in the layers like I wanted. In fact today when I washed it and let it dry curly, it actually looks better than it ever did curly before. Who would have thought a guy who spends his career cutting straight hair could cut it curly hair that well?

But then there is the color. He told me he would put in highlights, so I thought, okay, well why not. But when the towel came off my head, I was a little shocked. It was light, like really light. I thought to myself, "Okay, it's wet now, it's just gonna be lighter when it's dry" and once he blew it out, it was. I tried not to show the shock on my face, but sat there wondering why I didn't just say something.

I know women everywhere can relate to that moment of truth. You're sitting there in the chair, the hair stylist just did something you totally didn't expect, maybe it even makes you want to cry, but you, ever the stoic woman, sit there smiling as she fusses with your hair, proud of her handywork. The one time I tried to say, "Hey, this isn't what I asked for!" the guy persisted in telling me it looked great on me, so I finally had to give up. And with Jack and me not even speaking the same language and all, I figured it was futile to do anything but tell him the color was great. "Color good?" he asked. "Yes," I said, and smiled.

So, whenever I pass a mirror, I get that, "Who is that?" feeling. And today, with it curly, I've been singing the Cowardly Lion song from the Wizard of Oz to make the kids laugh. But I'm sure, with a little time, I'll get used to it. I always do.