Snapshots of hair (or: a day in Hämeenlinna)

Ever since I came back from Austria and discovered the Salon Smart Look behind the Bristol movie theatre, getting a haircut has been something of a social event I find myself looking forward to. It's so sad to think that cashiers, bankers and accountants are going to be replaced by machines. Instead of communicating with technology, people should communicate with each other more actively. I really enjoy testing the way people react to unexpected human contact. In the metro today, I was having a terribly boring phone conversation, and started rolling my eyes and making "bla bla" -movements with my hand to random people sitting across me. They didn't show even a flicker of a smile, probably thinking I couldn't possibly be addressing them.

Anyway, back to the point! My favourite hair salon. It's so small it took me a while to get used to where it was because I kept walking past it. Usually, I get my hair cut by a woman from Northern Kazakhstan who insists on speaking to me in Russian ever since she found out I understand the language. Married to a Finn, all the rest of her family is still back at home, where she once had aspiring hopes to become a choral conductor but flunked the entrance exam to the conservatory.

This time, I am not greeted by my favourite Kazakhstani, but by the owner of the place, Husam from Palestine. He instantly remembers me and greets me in Arabic, which throws me off track since I have just been mentally rehearsing my Russian basics. In no time, I am swept into a chair by his half-Lebanese wife, who gets working on the mess on my head at once. Bit by bit, we get into the flow of conversation and I start asking her about the Lebanese community in Helsinki.

"I can't stand the owners of Farouge" (this is Helsinki's only Lebanese restaurant), she begins, while the hair starts showering around my shoulders. "They are so snobbish! One time, we took some friends there and spent 400 euros on dinner, and they didn't even give us coffee on the house". She speaks to me in Finnish, but she says the last three words in English. While I process the idea of spending so much money on a dinner, she tells her husband something about their three-year old son in Arabic and I suddenly feel like I'm at home, but not this home.

"Anyway, you know what I mean - just plain snobbish", she continues. I tell her my uncle and his wife live in a town in Lebanon, and she almost cuts half my ear off. "WHAT? No way! My aunt lives in Beit Mary, that's just next to your uncle then!" I start asking her about her childhood - was it spent in Lebanon? "Yes, but when I was about ten years old, I moved to Cyprus with my grandmother because of the civil war". I expect to hear stories of desolate refugee camps, starving families and harsh conditions in the Cypriotic countryside.

"It was the best time of my life!!!!" At a push of her leg, I am suddenly pumped higher up on the chair so she can reach my neck better. "There was nothing to worry about - the only thing that existed was the beach and I spent all of my days there after school. No use learning the language - who needs it anyway?" she tells me in fluent Finnish. I am captivated by her story. I want to know what happened next, but suddenly the talk turns to her brother.

"My brother is in Switzerland now, but he wants to come here to study." I ask what he's doing there. "Well, he's working as a bartender", she raises her voice over the buzz of the shaving machine. "And, he has a woman there!" A click, and the machine is off - she looks at my reflection and says "Well, of course there's a woman. Why else would anyone want to go to Switzerland?". I smile, first because of the way she stresses the word "woman", but mostly because I am thinking of clean cities and wonderful Alpine landscapes, and I wonder to myself, who would want to come HERE.

As always, I refuse to have anything liquid or semi-liquid put in my hair and get out of the chair. My new acquaintance is sweeping my hair away when I leave. Another customer tells her to "say hello to the Kazakhstani woman, tell her I am the one whose son has the same name as hers". I hear there is a new Iraqi girl working here. As I walk back into the grey streets of downtown Helsinki, I think to myself I might hear her story next time I need a haircut.