In the Hands of Hair-Zeus.

Before I forget. I won't but, just in case.

I went to get a haircut today at a salon near my house. My friends were going and I hadn't washed my hair in a couple of days and I heard it was cheap here to get a trim so I figured I'd let someone else wash my hair and lose the split ends at the same time. The salon was spacious and modern inside, with black leather seats, gleaming white floors, and hair-flipping shades-wearing hair stylists. They took our coats and motioned us to swivel chairs facing a huge window. No appointments were needed.

I flipped through a massive black leather binder and pointed to a picture of a Korean girl with some cute flippy side bangs and a bit of a layered haircut. My friends wanted color and perming and more complex things so the shorter woman in a black miniskirt, brown boots, and gold jewelry went to work on Nicole. The dark-washed jeans wearing man, with perfectly gelled hair and a chain hanging from his side pocket pulled at Jamie's ends, eyeing them disdainfully as if he were examining a model about to stomp out on the runway. He whisked a cape around her and pushed her towards a chair.

I waited for what felt like forever, looking at a million pictures in magazines (I can't read Korean) and finally laying my scruffy head on the counter, debating taking a nap. Before I knew it Giorgio was back, motioning me to go to the chair.

My jaw clenched tighter and tighter with each not snip but sccccrump he hacked off my bangs. I gripped the edges of the chair, watching the front of my hair grow shorter and shorter, wondering if he was dreaming up a mod Parisian mullet and fulfilling it in the unsuspecting American. After the shearing was over, he fanned my face, trimmed some of the rest of my hair (let me assure you it didn't take near as much time as the bangs), and pushed me out of the chair, as another impeccably dressed woman (with a WAY too curly poodle perm) sat me down in a chair. Not only did she wash my hair, she gave me a head massage. I almost fell asleep. When it was over I regretfully stood up and plodded back to the chair, nervous at what the blow dry would reveal.

Ok, it wasn't that bad. The bangs could be pinned, or swept to the side, and ... people in the 50's did this all the time, right? Fabio set his comb down from Jamie's burgundy copper locks, sauntered over to me, and peered at the unfamiliar western conundrum on my head over his ever-so-lightly tinted glasses. At least, that's what it felt like. With a swift flick of the wrist, he pulled the shears out from their holder.

No, No, No. Korean Fabio, NO.

But he couldn't be stopped. He kept going. There were bangs sticking up, to the side, the left, the right, straight out... I had to avert my eyes. I couldn't bear to watch any longer. He leaned from side to side, assessing his masterpiece (or in my perspective, damage). He flipped some of my hair up with his finger and said something in Korean. I squinted and nodded slowly. (Conditioned response).

He came back with a straightener. As it heated, he skillfully worked on my bangs (good grief, obsessed much?) and with a few pulls of the brush, they lay perfectly slanted across my face. Although they are about ten times thicker than they have ever been (or ever should be- save a dramatic change in appropriate hair fashion) I breathed an apprehensive sigh. It was still too soon to tell.

He stood with impeccable posture, holding the straightener up to his face, almost touching his nose, and click, click, click. Sniff. That's right. I guess he can sense when it's ready. Click, click, click. Sniff. After a few times of this Jamie glanced over incredulously from under her rollers. He lowered the straightener. Not embarassed, probably just satisfied. Then, I beheld a MIRACLE. This Korean man proceeded to curl my hair into perfect ringlets with a FLAT-IRON. Ok sorority girls, laugh, you've known this trick much longer than me, but I am not among the elite... with each curl I fell more and more in love with the man. I found myself focusing on his bare left ring finger. Is he gay? Or just unmarried? Married and not wearing a ring? Married to the shop-owner, who may or may not be twice his age? Or is he just looking for the perfect muse, an art-piece on which to bestow fantastic hairstyles? Could it be me? Snap. Whoosh. Pin flick-of-the-wrist snap. Whoosh. Five minutes later and I looked like I was ready to go to prom.

When he finished he backed up, palms upturned, a smug look on his face (or maybe his face is just always smug?) He said something. I think that meant time to go. I slowly stood up from the chair, bowing profusely. "Komapsumnida! Komapsumnida!" I mumbled breathlessly, amazed at this hair-god who had just transformed me from a frumpy unshowered American to a trendy Korean (minus a few details). I went to pay (from someone else, he probably doesn't tamper his hands with dirty money).

TEN DOLLARS.

Never a dull moment.