No, this post isn't about whirlwind oranges. But we did happen to pick these up today from a donkey cart outside our building--how pretty can you get?
With a spiffy title like that, you are undoubtedly thinking I am cracked (domestic whirlwind??) and that I will proceed to regale you with further tales of vegetables or laundry. While those two things are a permanent part of my everyday life (you wouldn’t believe the incredible precision that now accompanies my laundry planning: is it sunny out? good, then I can do sheets because they will be dry by bedtime; do the coats need to be washed? if so, we have to plan an indoor day, etc. etc.), I’m saving those topics for a particularly dry stretch so I will have something to post about.
No, I have so much more to relate. First, I finally took the plunge, after four months of growing my hair out from a near-bald state (only a slight exaggeration) and went for a haircut. All that “shaggy dog-growing hair out-what to do with my hair” state of affairs finally trumped my fear of hair salons. Or rather, I am not so much fearful of hair salons per se (although I am generally not too fond of them—too fussy) as I am fearful of trying to communicate what I want in Chinese. Talk about the potential for a really bad haircut.
This opens up an opportunity for another long aside. I realize that I have ceded all pretensions of learning Chinese and Dave will be the first to agree with me when I say that I am totally incapable of ordering anything at a restaurant. He is the undisputed champion in that field, and even Samuel is picking up way more Chinese than he will ever willingly admit. The only thing I am good at is figuring out by context what someone is probably saying: like the meat lady wondering why the kids aren’t in school, or asking me if they are wearing their long underwear because I’m buying potatoes from her for a cold winter dinner (how convoluted is that?); or figuring out that the restaurant lady was telling us that the pumpkin cakes would be available the next day, so come back; or being able to tell the same restaurant lady that it was okay where we were sitting, we weren’t too cold right there by the door; or finding out the manicurist thought I was anemic because the skin under my fingernails isn’t pink enough; or having a long discussion with an 83 year old gentleman on the IMNU campus about our ages, and yes, that both children are mine, something he thought was terrific, that Dave looked old because of the white in his goatee, and that this gentleman didn’t look his age because he swims, does tai chi, and lifts weights (pretty good for no English on his part, or Chinese on mine, eh?). Of course, when he finally started outlining the length of his nose with his finger and then pointing at us, he lost me. Was he trying to tell me that his nose was long, like ours, or was he calling us “long noses” which is a racial pejorative reserved for Westerners? (not likely) He kept smiling at me and I kept smiling at him, but the conversation flagged at that point and he soon drifted off for a walk. What I’m trying to say is that I live in a weird little bubble where I go around and do my shopping or park visiting, or get my nails done, and I smile and say how old the kids are, say that Grace is shy when someone tries to get close to her, and trot out my pat phrases that cover pretty much everything: I don’t understand, I don’t speak Chinese, We’re from America, I’m linguistically challenged and basically an idiot. I yearn to have a real conversation with the meat lady, who seems so nice, or with the vegetable lady, who has a beautiful, worn face, or with the manicurist who exudes sex-appeal and financial success—what incredible stories I could hear from each of these ladies.
Now where was I? Oh yes, the haircut. I contacted Karen about where she goes to get her hair cut and pretty please could I go there some time with her as I was about ready to take the scissors to my hair myself (the punk look?). We finally settled on a day and time and her friend Dalai came with us, to serve as translator. By the way, I should mention that Dave and the kids get their hair cut down the street from our apartment for a mere 5 yuan each (less than a dollar a piece). I figured I would find safety in a big fancy hair salon, which this place mostly definitely proved to be. Of course, because Dave didn’t come along, I don’t have pictures so you will have to just bear with my descriptions.
The hair salon—“Out of Hong Kong” says Karen, which I think might be code for “They know how to cut all different types of hair in all different styles.”—is on the ground floor of a huge building. Attendants at the door opened it for us and we were greeted by young men dressed in full tuxedos, complete with tails and cumberbund. A lady took us to the back where she put our belongings in little lockers, handing us the key as another woman escorted us to the hair washing area. Here is where I should have had the camera—the stations were not your garden-variety chairs that tip back to sinks. Instead, I had to lie down on a table that looked suspiciously like those car beds you find at Toys R Us. The bed was lined with a rug that, when turned on, vibrates underneath you. Thankfully, she didn’t turn it on. Instead, I gazed up at a t.v. on the ceiling that played fashion show stuff while a woman washed my hair for 15 minutes (no exaggeration, really) and massaged my head. I couldn’t relax the way I was probably supposed to because I couldn’t stop worrying about the haircut to come. I know, I know, way to stay in the moment…
The hair washing lady marched me into the cutting area where there were about 10 different stations, with slender men in tuxedos cutting or dying or drying hair, ladies with fancy hairdos (but no tuxedos) holding cutting implements or simply just standing around looking beautiful. Dalai followed me to my chair and made a valiant effort at translating to the guy what I wanted (“I’m growing my hair out, but I still want it short, just get rid of the straggly stuff, blah de blah blah.”) Poor Dalai—I don’t know that he is used to trying to talk about ladies’ hair like that but he did a good job. At least, I don’t think the end result turned out too badly, though I am not going to post a picture. How vain would that be? The crazy thing—besides the car beds, tuxedos, and 15 minute hair dry on a short haircut—was that the whole thing cost 30 yuan. So, 6 times as much as Dave’s haircuts, but still only $5.
Samuel and Grace with the first of the Christmas presents (and plastic shedding needles on the floor around them--for the authentic tree experience?)
The other big event of the weekend? The kids and I went to the Muslim market and bought a Christmas tree. A real live four foot artificial tree with white-tipped needles (for that freshly chopped down in the snowy woods look). Our first ever (artificial tree, that is), and the kids couldn’t be happier with it. And here I thought I was going to have to construct one out of paper. The kids picked out blue, red, and gold plastic balls (“bulbs”, says Grace) and white lights (the colored ones were too small and blinked on and off in such a frantic manner that we were all instantly struck with headaches). I have become obsessed with cutting out snowflakes from a book Vanetta gave us, so a few of my attempts (from a pattern of course) also adorn the tree. To top it all off: a very corny paper angel, also from a book given to us by Vanetta, and dearly loved by the children. All in all I think things are looking pretty Christmas-y chez Arnold. We’ll bake some sugar cookies this week, using borrowed powdered sugar from Karen and hopefully borrowed food coloring from Abby. I have to say, I think I like this scrounging (not scrooging) around to make a Christmas.
3 comments:
Well, I do hope you return to the hair salon...with a camera. I, for one, HAVE to see those tuxedo'd fellows and the glam women. Naturally, I missed a photo of the new "do", but I can see that on the next skype call.
I hope you save the tree-top angel. Was it a joint effort? Who made it? It will have such memories....
Maybe, the 83 year-old gentleman was simply saying you have a beautiful nose. Of course, Moms will always assume that.
Love the angel :)
Must say, after dragging us along with you to your (much dreaded) haircut and then NOT posting a picture is badness! BADNESS! Santa is gonna give you coal in your stocking.
Communication. What a challenge. Had a similar adventure buying eggs in Vienna, Austria when we lived there in 1990. How can buying eggs be an adventure? Well, remember you are in Wien and you speak only a very little Deutsch. Only a very little. And you see these brown, somewhat spotted eggs sitting in a basket on the counter. A little smaller than the US-Triple-A supermarket variety you are used to, but nevertheless eggs. And you need some eggs. Four will do. So you ask the shop meister if he speaks English. Nein. Now the adventure begins. You ask him what kind of eggs are these? He's not sure he understands what you're saying, but he begins telling you about these eggs. You know you don't understand what he's saying. You smile and ask if these eggs are cooked or raw. He tells you more about the eggs. You don't understand this either. Now a little old lady (ein kleines alte frau ) who's been watching all this comes over to help. Unfortunately she doesn't speak any English either. However, she is determined. So she sets down her shopping bag, places her fists on her hips and begins to raise and lower her elbows in a flapping motion. At the same time, she begins to cluck and bob her head up and down, while she scuttles around the shop. She is a chicken. These are chicken eggs. With further sounds and signs it is revealed by the kleines alte frau and the shop meister that these are freshly laid, organically produced chicken eggs. The kleines alte frau receives a free bone for her dog and departs with the satisfaction of knowing that she has made a contribution to international understanding and, more importantly, her dog will be happy to see her. You leave with four fresh eggs.
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