A hair salon in the Beijing city center. I sit down in the hairdresser’s chair with a smile on my face. My head had just been washed.

‘English?’, I ask the hairstylist.

‘No’, I heard the hairstylist say smiling at me.

‘Boyish look’, I try to make some sort of hand gestures smiling at him. No response. He didn’t get it. Fuck!

‘Short, classic?..’, I try to put it more simply. Well, he should surely know the word classic.

‘Classic, classic’, I hear him repeat.

‘Hmmm…’, I give him a smile but soon realize that he does not get the point. Then he pulls out his iPhone and, pointing his finger at a translation app on the screen, he keeps repeating ‘classic, classic…’ and asks me to enter the word. I do as asked.

‘Oooohhh…’, I heard the long sound signaling that our communication was successful. ‘Not fashion, ok… OK?’, he says to me with a smile and then he takes scissors and…

‘Okey’, I say to him placing myself at the hands of fate and at the mercy of the stylish hair master. After twenty minutes I feel good. The haircut looks nice – boyish, short, and a little classic.

Maybe I should more often let life take me to the realm of the feeling (Inner Voice?) or of something that watches upon you (A Guardian Angel?) instead of relying on words only (That talky-talky Mind).

Photo by Agne Vei
Drawing by Igne



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