A Haircut At Last

After five whole months since arriving in New Zealand, I finally had my first haircut. And why did it took me that long? Well for starters, the price of getting one scared the hell out of me. With my limited grooming budget of $5, which is almost PhP160, I seem to fail to chance upon any establishment that offer their services at such balut-reasonable price.

And so to be kiwi-reasonable, I then increased that urgently important grooming budget to double the previous amount. I was able to find some dubious shops within that budget but it was always closed when I get there. You see, shops do open in Christchurch, but by the time you get off from work, the shops people are hurriedly going home as well. Talk about enthusiasm for work.

Some shops do open beyond office hours, but it will cost you, and, having our strict set of priorities, I do not want to eat into our shopping budget.

And so my hair grew and grew to proportions that would have Samson able to carry the world. Delilah would have deliriously wanted to cut it if she had chanced upon me.

But being in winter, long hair has its own perks. It kept my head and neck warm enough that I begun to miss my fancy caps and beanies. And so as the cold days gone by getting a haircut just drifted out of my consciousness.

Then the signs of spring pulled me back to reality. After a hearty meal at a Korean restaurant last Sunday, Onie and I made that big decision to borrow from our shopping budget and go for the $17 haircut that was open that day, a whopping 70% increase in previously rated acceptable amount.

We were greeted at the door by an old Japanese gentleman with long hair. Think of Doc from the 'Back to the Future' series but with slanted eyes. Onie engaged in small talk as I was being prepared for the eventful haircut, and the only useful information we had was that his name is Osaka, or something similar.

When prodded as to what type of haircut I wanted, I pointed to a picture in the wall of a handsome young man with short hair. And to his delight, he started clipping away making grunts and moaning sounds that are reminiscent of artists engrossed with their work on their masterpieces.

A full hour later, he stepped back and admired his work, while I sneaked a smile towards Onie who was bemused at the way a PhP540 haircut turned out. Having owned a hair salon in that small town in the boondocks of the balut eating nation, I would say we were not amused.

But, as the saying goes, a bad haircut is just two weeks away from a good one. All I have to do is wait!