Astro Boy Begins

For you Calvin and Hobbes afficionados, the beginnings of Astro Boy and his adventures may be quite well known. In an effort to get his mom's goat, Calvin uses Crisco brand shortening in his hair to create an interesting hairdo for school pictures. His mother freaks out and slicks his hair over with a sharp part on one side. After exiting his house to wait for the bus, Calvin's trusty friend Hobbes (the stuffed toy tiger) suggests a new hairdo. This is when Astro Boy arrives.
However, one might ask, "How do I become Astro Boy, or at least like Astro Boy?" This is where my tail begins. After nearly two months in China, my hair was getting a bit shaggy. Granted, my students loved my hair the way it was, but mild-mannered Roland Franks needed a trim. With the long weekend for Chinese National Day available, I used one afternoon to go downtown to receive a trim. A few other teachers had decided they also needed a trim. However, when the actual time of departure arrived, only Miss Suli Fu and I saddled up our bikes for the twenty-minute ride to the center of Kunming.
Miss Suli assured me that she would take me to her 'favorite' salon. She also calmed me by reminding me that if my haircut turned out to be something other that what I had planned, the hair would grow back. Thanks!
When we arrived down town, Miss Suli said, "I have to have a hamburger." I thought, "Okay." However, in Kunming, the only hamburgers readily available are McDonald's patties. I don't even eat McDonald's in the U.S.. Why would I want to eat it here? Remember, I am mild-mannered; so I consented. As we ate our hamburgers, a small boy looked at me and said something to Miss Suli. She replied nodding. "You know what he just said? You are a foreigner." What could I say to that?
After eating, we wandered toward the famous hair salon. We entered a large glass mall. Everything was glass. Not just the doors and windows. Everything seemed to be transparent.
We hoped on the see-through escalator and moved up two floors. We rounded the corner to where the salon was supposed to be and I heard a high squeek. "It's gone!" Unfazed, Miss Suli followed up her original exclamation with a bold statement, "Maybe it's up one more floor." And sure enough, there it was.
Now, I will admit that we most likely paid too much for our haircuts, but at least I, a Westerner, am supposed to pay too much. I had not, at the time, learned enough Chinese yet to bargin. Plus, at 30 quai (approximately $3.75), I could hardly complain about the original price. So we each took our seat to have our hair washed. When the Chinese wash your hair, you receive a head massage. Getting a haircut is a production, and comfort is a prime component. With the luxury of a wash and condition, I forgot my desire for a trim and simply wanted to stay reclined having the attendant's hands massage my scalp. However, after a fairly involved cleaning, my hair was ready for the stylist.
I say ready for the stylist, because a completely different person from the one who washed my hair ushered me toward the chair for my trim. Miss Suli, having just gotten her hair washed also asked me, "Would you like them to trim it the way you always have it cut, or do you want them to just style it the way they would like to?" Naturally, I wanted it done "my way." I explained to her how I would like it trimmed. She in turn told my stylist. Then Miss Suli wheeled around and walked to her own chair and hairdresser.
While it only took a couple snips of his scissors for me to realize that my hair was going to end up how he wanted it anyway, I sat amazed at how much care he took in trimming my hair. In the States, my barber starts with the trimmers and ends with the scissors. This guy took nearly an half hour with the scissors before he decided to touch things up with the trimmers. He must have used three different hand combs and sets of scissors to slowly, stage-by-stage, snip my hair down to a thinner layer.
However, this done, I was immediately sent back to the hairwasher to have my scalp massaged one more time. A second wash and a second rinse later, I stepped back into the stylist's chair for the final touches to my new dew. When I put on my glasses, who looked back at me? Astro Boy.
After a couple showers, the effect has somewhat worn off. However, unlike the faux-hawk my athletes gave me in Holland during the summer of 2004, I wake up to this style. I come out of the shower with this style. It's as if my hair does not know anything else. I suppose as it grows out this mind-of-its-own attitude will wear away. Not to mention, I kind of like the new me. My students, with the exception of the U.S. 8th grade girls (all the Europeans love it), seem to like the new 'do as well.
However, as we left the salon, Miss Suli groaned, "Do you like your hair?" I said that it is not what I had expected, but that I enjoyed it. With a frown, she replied, "I hate my haircut!" Of course, as a male who knows better, I did not say, "It looks the same to me," which it did. Instead, I replied, "It's okay. It will grow back." Unwilling to be consoled, Miss Suli huffed back, "Yeah, but it will grow back wrong!" Thus, the mild-mannered teacher, Roland Franks, became Astro Boy, at least for a while.