Never Have You Ever (Imagined Hair Cuts or Bus Rides Like This): A Ballad By AmyBridgit, feat. 1.4 Billion Others

Sunday night, on a whim, I decided that the time had come to get my highlights touched up. I got some translations from a few Chinese teachers, a recommendation on a good salon, ignored several warnings about the haphazard results of previous attempts, and headed to test my luck. Flying by the seat of my pants, I hoped that I would still be mildly attractive after this experience. Or, have any hair at all. 

At approximately 5:30pm, I sat down in front of a man in a bright purple vest . We went over what I had written down, and I pointed repeatedly to the color I wanted. I informed him, via symbols in my notebook, that I wanted lots of small highlights. For the next hour and a half, a woman picked tiny pieces of hair from my head to be colored. She counted each strand as

 she did it, quite lovingly folding miniscule sections into foil; though systematic in manner, it took much longer than it should have. Much, much longer.

Already slightly impatient, I decided to have my hair cut while I was there. I only wanted a trim, and spent about 15 minutes doodling and dictating to Purple-Vest what I wanted. My mediocre drawing skills and  limited Chinese vocabulary seemed to get through to him, surprisingly, and he soon began snipping away. 

The cut was relatively quick, and, upon finishing, he proceeded to dry my hair. He blew dry the entire head, and then pinned my hair up into different sections. From his drawer, he pulled out the tiniest roller brush imaginable, and began to meticulously dry tiny section of hair by tiny section of hair. I sat there with slightly raised eyebrows for and hour, the build of energy caused by boredom accumulating quickly in my toosh. 

He reached the last section of hair, and I had all but breathed a sigh of relief when he called over Giant-Cross-Left-Ear-Earring, who's sole job, I presume, is to straighten hair. He grabbed a hot straightener, and immediately put my hair back up into sections. Tiny section of hair by tiny section of hair, he straightened; running the hot iron several times over each bit to ensure maximum straightness. After a chunk of tiny sections had been satisfactorily completed, He progressed to straightening larger sections of the pre-straightened tiny ones. When it was 9 o'clock, they had finally finished the straightening. 'Thank GOODNESS', I thought to myself, 'I don't think I can take anymore!' And that was when Purple-Vest reached back into his drawer and pulled out the blow dryer again. 

I escaped half an hour later into the freezing streets of Jinan. The highlights are nearly unrecognizable, but the cut is not bad. The price was so cheap that I discarded any hostilities my hairs might feel towards the over-frying session. 

The next morning, our poorly heated apartment brought more spontaneous entertainment into my life.  It's always chilly in the main room, but the kitchen and laundry room, which border the outside world, are literally the same temperature as outside. This morning, upon retrieving our washed laundry from the night before, Anna and I realized, with a mixture of shock and amusement, that they had frozen to the washing machine. Another shirt that had been soaking in a separate bucket now sat in a block of ice. Slipping and sliding on the home-made snow and ice covering the floor, we made it too the kitchen to discover this room also affected; all the liquid items were frozen, from water to olive oil.

To top it all off, our water was shut off this morning. We get no warning, but will randomly awake to find that we have no water. So, with no water, frozen food, iced up clothes, and a large mug of instant coffee, I began my morning. 

Throughout the day, I found myself annoyed by many things in China. The insane bikers, always honking even when there is no one around, the never-ending stream of people that are in no way courteous when it comes to lines or public transportation, taxi drivers that try repeatedly to ask you complicated questions about your life while you repeatedly respond " TING BU DONG!" (I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE SAYING SO JUST STOP!!)

However, later in the afternoon, I realized that the frustration is simply not worth it. These are things that you can't change. It's much better to laugh at them, perhaps creating some sort of online journal to chronicle your escapades for the entertainment of a third party. Otherwise, events such as this one might be lost in the scuffle.

 I found a great opportunity to practice this philosophy that evening, while looking for a taxi home. It was freezing outside, and, after 15 minutes in the cold, the last thing that Andy and I wanted to do was wait any longer for a taxi. There is a special bus that runs in the middle of the road, called the BRT, which would take us to the intersection where we catch the bus home. We paid, and stood in a mass of people waiting to board the bus. The first bus came by, and we watched in shock as an already impossibly stuffed bus, against all odds, expanded magically to accommodate even more people. We made it onto the second bus, jammed in the center section. Everyone was pressed so tightly together that no one had to hold on to the supports as the bus dodged through traffic; no one could move an inch. People rested their heads on strangers' shoulders.  They breathed in eachother's body odor with gusto.

When our stop came, we realized that, to exit, we had to, somehow, cross the width of the bus, which was jam packed with immobile people. Not only were these people unable to move, but they point-blank refused to move to keep their coveted spot on this popular transportation choice. Like a Survivor Challenge, we braced ourselves for the coming battle. The doors opened, and in slow motion, a new crowd of potential bus riders thrust in like their lives depended on it, and Andy and I pushed out. 

After initially struggling to even face the doorway, I shoved harder than I ever have in my life. Competitive sports were nothing compared to this experience. I was literally using all of my strength to plunge myself out. With his height, Andy made it out first, leaving me floundering helplessly in a Chinese sea of people. "I CAN'T GET OUT! ANDY! HELP ME!" I screamed, laughing hysterically at the absurdity of the situation. I ducked low, and, with over ounce of strength I had left, managed to spill over out of the crowd onto the pavement. 

We took a taxi the rest of the way home.

Monday night marked the birthday of on of Aston's finest, Gary. Gary has been in China for quite awhile now, and had handpicked some pretty cool places to celebrate his 27th. A huge group of around 40 dined together at a Da Pan Ji restaurant, which served numerous family-style dishes of equal culinary quality, appealing greatly to my love for things spicy. In one dish we did discover chicken heads and feet mixed in with the meat. I nibbled a chicken foot, which is not as disgusting as my American friends might imagine. 

After that, we headed to a bar then a club, during which time I once again assumed responsibility of photographer. It was a great night!