Taking the plunge

Well, I finally did it.

I went hesitantly and with great trepidation where everyone who spends any significant period of time here goes eventually.

I got a haircut.

Now, I am rather fond of my hair. It is dark, and it is thick, and it is shiny, and it is on my head. So, I am a little protective of it, and there are only two people I truly trust to cut it off. Every now and then, in my desperation and/or frugality, I have allowed other people—people with scissors and dubious qualifications—near my head.* And let me tell you, friends, four months without a haircut can make a person desperate.

So, I thought about my options, which were as follows:

1.       Don’t get a haircut at all.

2.       Suck it up and go to a salon in Dushanbe.

3.       Cut my own hair.

Over time, the first option stopped being an option. I tried to delude myself for a while, thinking Hey, it’s not so bad! This is a good thing, really. I’m growing a winter coat like a grizzly bear. Yeah! Psh. Right.

On to the second! This was also not a particularly attractive option. I reiterate:  I generally do not trust people with cutting implements to hack at my head. This ingrained aversion, combined with the language issue and what I assumed to be all stylists’ inadequate training, made me reluctant to go to a salon. Well, what else are you going to do? Do it yourself? Idiot, I thought to myself.

And that was the most compelling argument I could have made to convince myself that that was exactly what I should do. Just in case you read that with sarcasm, I’m going to repeat myself, and I want you to know that I genuinely mean the words I am about to write:  I knew it would be terrible, and I judged that to be an argument in favor of option 3.

I want to pause here to emphasize what a rational being I am. Going to a salon would be a risk. The person holding the scissors would either have the skills necessary to cut my precious hair or would not. I, on the other hand, am definitely unqualified. The outcome is known. So it would be the safest choice. Why hazard someone else ruining my hair when I could just go ahead and mutilate it myself?

I’ll get back to that.

Before making a definitive decision, I did some research. I asked friends with nice hair where they get theirs done. Ruling out all the answers along the lines of “I get my hair cut in Istanbul” and “There’s a guy in Almaty who does a pretty good job,” a clear frontrunner emerged. That is, if I decided that the salon would be the way to go.

I also used the World Wide Web to look up how to cut one’s own hair. I found one site that divided the process into pretty clear steps and had pictures. Ok, fine, the instructions were a little bit in Italian and the pictures were weird cartoons. But it looked manageable.

Being an active person who never puts off making decisions, I gathered this information and then did nothing for two weeks. Then one day—some call it Monday—I woke up, looked at myself in the mirror, and thought, You look like a barbarian. Fix it.

So! Ok then! Ok! What’s it going to be! What are you going to do! Say it! Say it now!

And I went to the salon and made an appointment. And you know what? I even kept it! The next day I went in and put my life into the hands of a young woman named Aziza. And you know what else?

She did a fantastic job.

Sure, when she shampooed my hair, she also shampooed my forehead, cheeks, and neck, and it’s still a little long for me, and she styled it with an amount of volume that would have been more appropriate thirty years ago than today, but those things aren’t really a problem. My hair is still dark, and it is still thick, and it is still shiny, and it is still on my head. Now it has the added benefit of being shorter, having layers, and not looking beastly. Who knew you could pay a professional instead of erratically opening and closing scissors behind your own head? What a world!

My eyebrows, however, remain off limits. For the time being, anyway. Maybe. We’ll see. No. But maybe.

*Remember the Tragedy of 2012? I do.

Computers, poetry, and skin diseases

This week I began teaching a basic computer class at a local institute, focusing on basic Word, Excel, email, so on. Last Wednesday I had gone in to meet with the staff and plan the schedule:  I would come in Monday of this week, and they would be ready for me.

I had never taught a computer class before—not even in my native language—so I was nervous but excited. I was meant to teach for an hour and half, but I was running a little late on Monday afternoon. No matter, I thought. They won’t be ready for me on time on the first day anyway.

When I walked in the door ten minutes later than intended, I was greeted by two women and led into a room to sit. I sat and the women left. Three minutes later, a different woman entered with a man I had not met the week before.

“Hello, Emily! How are you? How’s work?” she asked.

“Hello. Everything’s fine, thanks. And you?” I asked.

“Good, good. This is our English teacher!” She gestured enthusiastically to the silent Tajik man.

“Oh, hello!” I said, forgetting to switch to the language of his profession. “How are you?”

“I am fine, thank you.” He answered pointedly in English. Oops.

The three of us sat down. There was a pause, and then, “Have you ever been to a Tajik wedding?”

“Yes, actually, I went to one yesterday!” They were pleased with my answer, and we spent the next couple minutes looking at pictures of the woman’s son’s wedding earlier this summer, while in either my imagination or reality the English teacher glared at me. In the middle of all the “beautiful, beautiful,” “Where is this?,” and “Congratulations!,” one of the original two reentered with another man.

“Emily, this is our director!”

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”  While smiling and shaking hands, it occurred to me that I might not even teach today, and no one seemed too concerned. All right then.

Just as this thought was passing through, someone said, “Come this way,” and the crowd moved into the hall. The English teacher asked, “Have you seen the room yet?” And I thought, It’s happening! Ok! Let’s do this! I was about to answer when someone said, “No, Emily, this way,” and I found myself ushered into another room behind the director.

“Sit,” he said. “Just a moment.” And then he signed papers while I stared at him and wondered what I was there to talk about. Computers, probably?

What a fool I was back then! No, I was not there to talk about computers or computer classes. The subject at hand was Persian poetry, which I should have known, as well as my command of the Cyrillic and Perso-Arabic alphabets, which I should have anticipated.

“Here, read this,” the director said, handing me an open book and pointing to a line of text. I reached out, took the book, began to read, and—“What’s wrong with your hands?”

“What?” I held my hands out in front of me, palms down, and considered them. They look fine… Oh. “You mean my skin? I have vitiligo.”

“How do you get rid of it? Have you been to the doctor?” And so on, until he decided it was finally time to release me to the students. He gave me the collection of poetry to borrow and sent me on my way. Great!

The class itself went fairly well, aside from the fact that no, there wasn't a room ready, there were three or four people to a computer, a fair number didn't know how to type, and the lesson ended up being cut short by forty minutes. Afterwards, I was not allowed to leave until after tea, during which one or two other people noticed my unsightly affliction and suggested ways to get rid of it. Wednesday went about the same but with fewer computers. On Friday I was yet again running late and left for the institute at the time class was supposed to start, only to receive a call a few minutes later telling me not to come in today, there’s something else going on, see you next class, ok bye.

I do think the English teacher forgave me, though, so that’s good.