Chris In China

Da Fu Yuan, better known as RT mart, is a modern marvel of commercialization, a small, underground shopping village with faux marble floors and short ceilings. On Sundays, it is packed with shoppers strolling past stores selling knock-off Ralph Lauren sweaters and cheap — and tacky — plastic jewelry. On the bottom floor is the sprawling grocery store where one can find baked beans in tomato sauce and just expired Land-o-Lakes sharp cheddar cheese. The shopping center is located underneath a park that hosts elderly folk bands, stinky-tofu vendors and kite flyers by the dozens.
In short, it’s an idyllic setting for a Chinese family to spend a Sunday afternoon.
Da Fu Yuan Street, a narrow strip of outdoor restaurants and grocers huddled on the banks of a sludgy, is located behind the park. A few meters to the north is where the elderly barbers set up shop, including a modified kitchen chair that leans backward with a pair of leather strops hanging off the back, and a three-wheeled bicycle fitted with a barrow bed to hold all the tools of the trade: scissors, hot water, razors and a few towels.
Nearby, old men play mahjong and Chinese chess, impromptu social events that attract large gawking crowds of other old men who stand around, watching and dissecting the players’ every move and strategies.
“Ahh, I would have moved the elephant two spaces to the right!”
“Old Zhao, you will lose your first chariot if you move there!”
Most of the time, the men are silent observers, but every once in a while, the chime of a collective “Ahh” will echo through the air.
When I arrive to scout out a barber’s chair, some of their attention shifts from the game to this bizarre waiguoren, foreigner.
“He’s going to get a haircut!” laughs one of the onlookers.
I decided an old man should give me the shave, thinking he would know a little more about the sensitivity of another man’s beard than one of his female counterparts. The man I picked was just finishing up with another client when I locked up my Flying Pigeon bicycle next to his. The customer, a large, nearly hairless man with deep wrinkles, sat motionless in the converted chair as the barber, with the concentration of a veteran sculptor, put the finishing touches on the man’s shiny melon, meticulously seeking and removing any fuzzy remnants, ensuring a smooth and consistent finished product.
He was good, I thought; the customer didn’t flinch once. This boded well for me, but I was nervous. Barbershops no longer perform this service in most American cities; it is too dangerous, a barber at A Man’s World barbershop in North Adams once told me — liability insurance would not cover damages. Now, halfway across the world, I was about to get a shave by a man using a technique that, back home, is considered archaic and risky.
But this was why I came to China. I wanted to see how people lived before lawyers and businesses exploited and changed the old way of doing things. A shave from a street-side barbershop presented a perfect opportunity to step back in time.
I hold quixotic images of neighborhood barbershops from 1940s Brooklyn, South Boston, and Marshall Street, North Adams, giving “dangerous” shaves and haircuts to old men on lazy afternoons while they waxed poetic about the latest Red Sox and Dodgers games. It is a shame this piece of American masculine culture has died.
Evidence suggests the practice won’t last much longer in China, either. The street-side barbers are never busy, and I was by far the youngest customer they had seen in a long time. It is a relic of the past, a part of the old days that is being squashed by modernization.
As I sat down in the chair, a feeling of nostalgia came over me. I had never been in that position before, but there was an odd familiarity with the process. The old barber put the bristly white lather brush to my face, and the tingle of hot, menthol-scented soap permeated my pores. When he set a warm, damp cloth on my chin, cheeks and mouth, softening up the long, patchy beard, I felt completely relaxed and comfortable.
But, when he brought the strop-sharpened razor to my face, all those pleasant idealistic thoughts vanished like the hair on my chin soon would. I clenched my teeth and squeezed the armrest as hard as I could. I could hear the scrape of cold metal against my face through my inner ear. It sounded like he was scraping a thick frost off the windshield of my old Crown Victoria during the small hours of a cold winter morning in New England. It was a fingernails-on-a-chalkboard type of feeling; I cringed during the entire process. But I did not tell him to stop. I heeded the example of the old customer who went before me and tried to remain expressionless, determined to enjoy the experience.
When it was all over I thanked the old barber, gave him his well-earned money and unlocked my bike. The lotion he rubbed into my face gave me a slight sting, but it felt cool and clean.
On my way back home I ran into a friend, who took one look at my face and exclaimed, “What happened to your face!?”
“Uh, what do you mean?” I said, as I rubbed my hairless, baby’s bottom chin.
“You’re bleeding everywhere!”
“Oh.” I looked at the red liquid on my hand.
I never expected that to happen. It’s too bad it might not happen again.

Chris Gauthier is a recent Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts graduate who is spending a year in China teaching English at Hebei University. He is writing regular columns for The Advocate during his stay in China. To read all of his Advocate columns, visit blogtheberkshires.com. Readers can also read more about his experiences on his own blog at chrisinchina.wordpress.com.