The Polish Hair Cut

For years, I’ve been cutting my own hair. Doing so is not an act of bravery but of necessity.

You see, because I am so big and tall with exceedingly thin, curly hair, it is imperative that I maintain a flattering hairstyle: too long and my hair lays on my head like a dead thing. Too short and the curl is gone: overwhelmingly, I get called ‘Sir’.

I’ve been known to be called ‘sir’ even with longer hair, especially when I used to wear it pulled back.

However, I am anatomically incorrect for that designator and I really don’t see how anyone could miss that fact, seeing as my exaggerated height puts my mammary region just about eye level to most. Or maybe they are just considering my height...

But I digress...  

These days I find a just-above-the-shoulder cut frames my face nicely and gives my hair enough bounce that I have no need to feel there is something dead on my head. And, over the years, I’ve gotten pretty good at snipping and layering my tresses... until I broke my arm.

I probably am still decent at cutting my own hair; it’s just my left arm prevents me from proving it.

The arm is more or less healed now but the elbow remains impacted. I have only about 80% usage of my left limb; 85% on a good day. Most recently, I’ve worked it so much that I can now touch my head with it but I still can’t position the arm as necessary for effective cutting.

That is to say: I don’t trust my arm to function adequately for the length of time it would take to cut my hair and I have no desire to walk around half-shorn until my arm is ready for another go at cutting around my head.

That leaves me no choice but to visit a styling salon. Fortunately, there is one in the shopping center close to my house.

I had been there before, about a month after I moved here, when my arm was freshly broken and I could only say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ in Polish.

These days, I can say so much more but I don’t know how to say ‘I need a haircut, please.’.

Of course, I know ‘please’ (proszę – sounds like pro-sheu), and ‘hair’ is włosy (foo-oh-suh) – picked that one up from my shampoo bottle. But ‘cut’... hmmm...

I recently bought a Polish-English dictionary. Translators are all fine and well but, seeing as I am taking Polish language courses, I’ve reverted to my childhood study method: looking up words in the dictionary.

Occasionally, also reading the dictionary.

I always told my students in China that relying on Internet translators can get you in trouble because they translate word for word rather than meaning and nuance, which is often more correct. Besides that, oftentimes, online translators do not actually render a correct translation!

Furthermore, the act of searching in a dictionary reinforces neural pathways, helping you learn more and retain better.  

By the way, I did tell you I am taking language courses, right?

Nearly ready to go on today’s outing, I sit with my dictionary.

Dzień dobry, musim obiąć włosy. D-gen dobrie, moosim obi-onch foo-oh-suh.

“Hello, I need a haircut.”

Dobze. D-ohb-zhe

“Very well.”

I was directed to a stylist’s chair. By sheer coincidence, said stylist was wearing her hair in a Chinese topknot; the coincidence being that I was getting my haircut on Lunar New Year.

I know it’s kind of silly to build a sense of kinship on a hairstyle, but then, a hairstyle is the cause and extent of our relationship.

Too bad I didn’t have the words to talk with her about Chinese New Year and the historic topknot hair style!

However, I had painstakingly researched and written down the correct words to express my styling needs:

Proszę pokroić dwa centymetrów. Pro-sheu po-kroi-ch dva cen-tuh-meh-tr-oof

“Please trim two centimeters.”

She burst out laughing! At my carefully researched phrasing! And I had no idea why!!!

I asked her if she spoke English or German. I wanted to know what I had done so wrong as to merit a freshet of laughter, delightful as it was.

Another customer, in for a trim herself, averred she  spoke German and proceeded to explain:

‘Pokroić’ represents the act of slicing, as in bread or cheese or meat. Hair does not get ‘pokroić’-ed, no matter what my dictionary says.

My dictionary told me that that word meant ‘trim’, as in ‘hair’!

Now I am mad at my dictionary. In fact, I have already noticed its limitations; there are plenty of English words that I’ve tried to look up only to find them not listed.

Still, I figured the words that are listed should be correct... no? 

That gaffe set the tone for one of the most profound exercises of trust I have experienced since I’ve been here: putting my head, my hair... indeed my very appearance in the hands of a complete stranger whom I could not communicate with. 

Incidentally, the reason I started cutting my hair all those years ago was because hair stylists always cut my hair too short – maybe they too thought I should look more masculine in spite of my mammaries?

But the episode that clinched it was after I had burnt my eyes while welding. Forced to keep my eyes shut while the stylist snipped away, when she finished I put my sunglasses back on to find I had only about two inches of hair left, all around my head!

At least the crying jag brought on by that shearing made my burning eyes feel better, if only temporarily.

Wouldn’t you develop a deep sense of mistrust at anyone who wanted to approach your head with scissors after such a disastrous outcome?

The most remarkable aspect of today’s event was the use of paper towels to dry the hair after its wash, rather than a terrycloth towel.

Those disposable serviettes were then further used around my neck, before the apron was donned, to prevent hair snippets from invading my collar.

Once the hair was lightened of its two centimeters, she indicated a blow dryer; I nodded assent. She then rubbed a light goop on my head and proceeded to style, finishing off with another fragrant blast of spray.  

Truly, it looked and felt great. I was quite pleased with the result and dug into my coin purse to deposit a generous tip into her piggy bank.

No kidding, there was a white ceramic pig sporting crimson lipstick and a silver crown at her station!

Now adorned with a flattering hair style, I strode through the mall, head held high, on my way to discover another segment of this city’s historic walk.

As it is thoughtfully marked out by a red line on select sidewalks, it is rather easy to apportion the sights without having to carry and mark a map, and without having to take all the sights in in one day.

The satisfaction of how my hair felt as it moved with my walk lasted exactly as long as it took for me to exit the shopping center.

As soon as my super-fine hair encountered the ambient air’s humidity – 78% to be exact, the curls wilted and the light spray that smelled so good turned my hair into a sticky mess. By the time I got home, it was laying on my head like a dead thing.

Oh, well!