A Traveller’s Perspective: Crossing Wires & Splitting Hairs
München is on the bucket list of every traveller to Germany. Sitting in the heart of Bavaria, this sprawling city is the gateway to the Alps and a springboard for visitors’ southern German adventures. Now when most people arrive, they head straight for Marienplatz and grab a Bretzel and Bier from the Hofbrau Haus, or meander through the peaceful oasis that is the Englischer Garten. As I rolled into München Hauptbahnhof on the ICE from Frankfurt in July 2013, however, none of the big sites were on my mind. I had much more pressing issues to attend to.
It was about a month into my trip, and three weeks since I’d last cut my hair. Yes, that’s right; since I’d last cut my hair. A couple years previous, after a particularly bad experience at my local barber shop, I decided to dust off the hair clippers my mom used to use on me when I was a kid and give it a go myself. The first time I took clippers to hair, I underestimated the power of the blade and ended up giving myself a nice bald spot. Not one to give up easily, I gave it another shot a few months later, and though it took nearly 2 hours, I managed to give myself a decent cut. I got better and better with practice, and eventually I started cutting my own hair once a month; same style every time, 0 on the back and sides, 2 on top. It became a routine; set up the mirrors, put on an episode of the Intelligence Squared podcast, and get to work. For quite a while I never set foot in a barbershop.
Before departing for München, I had tried cutting my hair at my Oma’s house. After plugging my hair clippers in and switching them on, I immediately got a lesson in the difference between electricity in Europe and North America. The excess voltage zapped the blade into overdrive and bent it out of shape. Not realizing, I raised it to the back of my head and began cutting. Upon touching my hair, the clippers let out an ungodly squeal and died. On a side note, when I got back to Vancouver they came back to life and I still use them to this day. Anyways, unable to continue, I left my Oma’s house for München with a chunk of hair missing, and decided, begrudgingly, that I would visit a barber shop to finish what I’d started.
I’d scoped out a few barbers on Google Maps, but being a high school student who hadn’t budgeted a haircut into his trip, went for the cheapest option. After arriving at the Hauptbahnhof, I followed the directions given to me by Google and eventually found myself outside what appeared to be the right place. I peered inside and saw a row of chairs, all but one of which were full of men speaking what sounded like Turkish with one another. The man standing behind the one open chair noticed me in the doorway and motioned me to come sit down. I obliged, walking in and taking a seat.
“Hallo,” he said, “was kann ich für sie machen?”
“Hallo, ich brauche kurzer Haare,“ I replied. At the time, my German vocabulary was extensive, but my grammar was equivalent to that of a child’s. The barber nodded slowly and grabbed his clippers. I took out my phone and pulled up a couple photos showing how I wanted it cut. The barber nodded and poked the back of my head. “Null oder eins?” he asked.
“Null,” I replied.
He removed the blade from his clippers and got to work. Before long, the back and sides of my head were essentially shaved; all that was left was the top.
The barber asked me something in broken German, but even after repeating it three times, I still didn’t understand. I tried asking if he spoke English, but that only caused him to call on one of the other barbers in Turkish. Before long I was talking to my barber in German, he was communicating with his colleagues in Turkish, and one of the other customers was speaking to me in broken English.
Eventually, using all three languages, we managed to communicate to one another how I wanted the top done. My barber put on the correct blade, and started cutting. Now there’s a certain way I would always finish the top. I’d take the clippers and meticulously shave the edges so it’s all in line. Taking a look at myself in the mirror after the barber put his clippers down, I saw a few places that could be evened out. Deciding hand signals offered the best chance of successfully communicating with one another, the barber gave a thumbs up and raised his eyebrows. I pointed to the piece of hair sticking out and he gave me an annoyed look. “Kann ich?” I asked, motioning towards the clippers then back to me. He shrugged and handed them to me. I stood up, moved closer to the mirror, and got to work. Others in the barbershop stared at me as I skillfully trimmed every stray hair. Upon finishing, I turned off the clippers and put them down on the table, then removed my bib, and walked over to the payment desk.
“Ten Euros,” the barber said. I took out my wallet and as I handed him a €10 bill, I thought about asking for an employee discount. Thinking back on it, that probably would’ve just gotten lost in translation…
