Moshida Man Says: Gentlemen, Remove your Hats.

It may come as a surprise to some women, but men do take their hair seriously. At the risk during some point in our brief turn as desirable mates of losing our locks to our genes’ predisposition, the hair on our heads becomes a matter of fact, a barometer of our masculinity. Beyond our waistlines, crow’s feet, and accumulating body hair, the demise of our scalp’s foliage is by no means a laughing matter. Medicine states that 50% of men will suffer from pattern baldness during their lifetime, some as early as age twenty. An industry has grown upon great sums to prevent the loss of our head’s hair, mostly to the lengths of fraud. It is the opinion of those in the house of Moshida that men should take the old phrase “smoke ‘em if you got ‘em” and turn it towards their head. Put down the clippers in your bathroom and head down the street to a place where hair isn’t considered something you put under a hat.

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Two and a half years running, I’ve visited a small, local salon around the corner from my apartment in Korea. My Korean language skills are top-notch first grade, and likewise, the ladies in the salon do not speak a lick of English. This would constitute fear in the hearts of most women, for communicating with the person who’s going to change your image is something of sanctity. Men, well, we mostly don’t give a shit. Find me a man who can tell the difference between scissors and shears and I’ll give you a cookie. You can sit in the local barbershop all day and not hear one iota of conversation that leans towards the specifics of hair styling and maintenance. We’ve had bigger fish to fry, I guess.

I’m not on the median when it comes to hair styling. For many years now I’ve sported what many consider to be a remnant of the days when a hot-rod or GTO wasn’t the name of a software application or party drug. Granted the greasers remain in their cadres throughout the western world, but my hairstyle represents a singular act of identity – it works, it’s interesting. I carry sideburns to a point. I visit the salon every two weeks or so to get things adjusted. Here, in Korea, this costs me around nine dollars. Cheap. The women who so gracefully undertake the trimming are brave souls and patient saints. It could be that their lack of clientele asking for this sort of styling leaves them to offer their ignorance as some sort of benefit, meaning, bliss.

As I mentioned, I’ve taken my styling to the same place since arriving on the peninsula in 2006. I cycled through four different stylists and finally trained, yes, trained the owner to cut my hair. A little patience and simple instruction goes a long way. Only recently did I take a colleague’s advice and visit an English speaking Korean stylist at a salon in Seoul. The price tripled, naturally, and the judgment came down. My very particular pompadour was labeled strange and unusual. Here come the tears.

I am no stranger to dropping fifty on a cut, having taken my twenties on Newbury Street in Boston, the seat of the city’s salon culture. I was also just as comfortable in the barbershop chair flanked by local police, including my brother, a firm believer in the “high and tight” school of clipper culture. I’ve had straight razors taken to my sideburns and neck by old Italians, and had one stylist tell me that using clippers on hair is considered “cheating”. I sought a balance between the forces. Who knew that a forty-something woman in a semi-caftan with bad makeup, God bless her, could rock such a complicated styling job?

Three months ago I got tired of spending my mornings propping my hair up like a drunk buddy early Sunday morning. To make matters worse, I’ve not purchased a hair dryer since moving here, complicating the necessary pompadour maneuvers further. Towel drying is for the birds; buy a dryer. I took a trip to Seoul with two female colleagues as my peanut gallery with the intention of going Samson and Delilah on my coif. An hour later, there I was, eight ball headed, like a freshman crew candidate in college. Gone was the pompadour, and what was left was just the foundation, a grave.

I spent the next few months toying with something more mod, think Meet the Beatles or Paul Weller in some circumstances. I don’t have the melon for a mop, or so I discovered after weeks of back and forth with some Aveda product. Too many ingrained waves in the front and likewise around the ears. I was patient, visiting the Seoul salon a few more times, making friends, referring people. It’s a great joint, and the fact that the stylist speaks English is a comfort to many. However, my head demands a certain style. Its shape is that of the cartoon Bruce Wayne from Batman: The Animated Series, rectangular. No matter how much effort I put into keeping the Seoul styling, the mop look didn’t fit, and I was paying for it. I missed the trappings of my salon kitsch, replete with its Korean pop radio and local candor.

As this weekend approached I debated making another appointment in Seoul, going back to see if maybe she’d give the pompadour a go. Saturday morning came and I was running late, Seoul’s almost an hour away. I caved and walked back down the street to the local joint. I had also just seen one of the stylists on the street a few nights previous, telling her in Korean that I’d been in America all this time; some guilt lingered that I hadn’t been back in months. Putting what was a mop into my best pomp I headed out ready for that hum of the clipper, a tool not dutifully used in the Seoul salon, much to my chagrin.

The women at the local joint and the women in Seoul are two different species. Asia has a heavy hand with its welcoming hospitality and takes no time telling you sit down. Although both salons offered the same welcome, I love the local ladies’ touch when I enter, a bell rings, everyone bows and says hello. I ask for a shampoo first, and I get one. They use Paul Mitchell’s Tea Tree Shampoo and Lemon Sage Conditioner, two products I love. Their head massages have varied through the passing of different stylists, but I’m getting what I pay for.

I don’t explain. She says something to me in Korean and I know that she knows that I know. Strange, how that works. I believe that my insistence on showing them exactly what I wanted from the beginning made all the difference. Most men just jump in, mumble “a trim”, and open the paper. You can’t do that in my world. Being specific is important – why shouldn’t it be? You like your steak cooked a certain way, correct? I watch carefully just to make sure that she’s getting the moves right. It’s a simple cut up to the temples, just having at it with some steady clipper work, but the top takes care, as it transitions into something altogether different than the lower hemisphere.

The feeling is wonderful, seeing the months of growth fall onto the cape and floor. I miss the buzz of the clippers at the back of my head. Yes, I’m just that sentimental. The radio is still terrible, belting some awful pop pulled straight from the cotton candy stand at a carnival. She remembers the comb that works the sideburns close – I don’t feel as if there’s any performance going on. This is work, it feels like work, and I gather that my preference is such. I sigh, occasionally, glad that I shaved before coming. Call me crazy, but when I saw Elvis get his Army haircut I thought, “not bad”. A second shampoo follows, and I call for some weight to be taken off of one of the high sides. It’s good to trust your stylist, but you’ve got to do the diligence in the mirror – returning to the salon the next day to get something changed is an embarrassment.

Following a second shampoo, I’m allowed to dry my own hair, something my mother also does. I don’t know, maybe it’s genetic. The local salon women rather have me do it the way I want to. They also like to watch, for there can’t be a Korean man in a kilometer who dries and styles his own hair. Although the rate of perms I see for men is disturbing. The hair goes up with some Wax Works by Paul Mitchell, a touch of spray to keep the points, and someone applauds – this happened the first time as well. Not a bad feeling, and totally odd as well. Two Korean boys looking at a pop fashion mag to my right laugh as I stand up. I tell them in Korean that I look like a rooster, but I say chicken because I don’t know the word for rooster. I get laughs. Things smell good around me. I purchase a bottle of the same shampoo and conditioner and head back into the street. The air is cool but not enough to warrant the hat I brought with me. I don’t think of going back to Seoul, I think about going home and making lunch.

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The message here, gentlemen: Pay for what works if you feel good. Stick with it. Take a chance here and there. Don’t pay to play with the ladies. Women won’t flock to your paunchy salon stories in sympathy; they care about how you wear it.

MM