I had been in China for about three months and it was time for a haircut. My friend Wu Gong’s brother, Wu Fae, is a hairdresser and agreed to cut my hair. Wait, wait, wait. His name is Wu Fae and he is a hairdresser? He must be gay. We thought so too, but it turns out he’s not. He actually has a smoking hot girlfriend.
The problem is that I am hairier than pretty much every single Chinese person here in China. I’m like a freaking yeti compared to all of them. Sometimes students have come up to me and pet my arms because they hadn’t seen anyone as hairy as me, and I guess they wanted to know what fur feels like. It had been a while since I had a proper haircut and all of my hair was getting long. I needed to man-scape. (To all you sickos out there I’m not talking about my pubes I’m talking about my chest hair.)
After waiting 45 minutes for my hair to be cut (the Chinese take forever to cut hair), I asked Wu Fae if I could borrow his clippers to trim my chest hair. Wu Fae doesn’t speak English so I had to pantomime trimming my chest hair so he would understand. Wu Fae agreed to let me cut my chest hair but told me that he wouldn’t do it for me. If I wanted to, I would have to do it myself. So here I was, standing in the middle of Wu Gong’s restaurant with my shirt off, trimming my chest hair. Random people walking by would stop and watch this crazy American. But if having everyone staring at me was the price I had to pay, so be it. It was needed and worth it.