Since I haven’t had a haircut since Vietnam, I thought it would be a big relief to go to a stylist who spoke my language. I walked into this salon at the mall in Bondi Junction and prayed I wouldn’t walk out with a mullet. Luckily, this guy was skilled with scissors. Small talk, on the other hand, was not his forte.
As I sat down, he came right out with, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine. How old are you?” I responded.
“Twenty-six. You don’t look twenty-nine. Are you married?”
Geez, talk about getting personal. Taken off guard, I had no cool comeback. “I’ve been traveling for almost eleven months.”
“Well, do you have a boyfriend?”
“What happens if you meet somebody on the road?”
“I don’t know. Then I guess I meet somebody on the road.” For the love of God, buddy, I just came in for a haircut, not to dish about my love life.
“Australian men are direct. Maybe you should try one.”
I thought I was all about honesty, but this straight-forwardness was making me a bit uncomfortable. To distract him from the topic, I raised my brows in concern and gasped, “Oh my God. I think I’ve spotted a gray hair!”
“Well, you ARE almost thirty you know,” he chided.
I've changed my mind: I think I prefer the good old days when my stylist and I communicated using only hand gestures.