Capt. Scott Lang - A Soldier's Life
Irony in Afghanistan illustrated by haircut
May 14, 2007
I try to appreciate the ironies of life, to see them, recognize them, and either love them or hate them. Or so I tell myself.
Everything about living, working, and existing in this place called KAF is a Stephen King step away from being normal. There is a sense of replication here, a sense that this base is simply trying to emulate life from "back home." This is obviously shaded — hmm, tinted — by the many nationalities that are here, therefore creating a true feeling that I am almost 100 per cent positive exists nowhere else on earth. And if you dwelled on it for any length of time you would likely feel very isolated, or at least as if suffering from an odd sense of vertigo.
This emulation (like buying "XBOSS" games at the market) of course applies to how different countries approach recreation, and how different countries — Ha! Even how different companies from the same country's army — do business on the battlefield. It affects absolutely everything, even down to the most mundane functions. Like getting your haircut.
For some a haircut is an important thing, an important ritual that can define how people perceive themselves and carry themselves. Most people I know have a dedicated person they go to, a person they seek out when they first move somewhere. And a person they will only avoid going to only under the threat of severe bodily harm. They build up a trust, a bond, an unspoken agreement. My father has had his hair cut in the same place for the last 25 years. I can guarantee the conversations between my father and the person cutting his hair have changed slightly, but their relationship hasn't. I know my dad's hairstyle hasn't.
I have taken after my father in many ways, some frighteningly so. But I agree on finding a consistent and reliable barber or hairstylist to cut my hair, and heaven knows my hairstyle can change little. Even so there is a certain way I like to have my hair cut, and if it fails to happen I feel odd and out of place, catching grimacing looks from myself in reflective surfaces. This lasts until I go get it fixed, or I forget about it. In the end, I'm not that vain.
So, under those conditions, imagine walking into a small little American trailer the size of a camper, in the middle of Kandahar Airfield to have your hair cut by two Russian women who have no grasp of the English language.
It was clear these women were Russian. One reminded me of a face I'd seen in a Smirnoff ad. The other clue would have been the tattered Russian-English dictionary and phrase book on the counter.
While waiting I felt a curious dropping in my stomach as I looked at the faded and yellowed haircut selection pictures, ones that Judge Reinhold would have sported at least a decade ago. I said to myself, "Self, this is going to go badly." Then I got the gruff nod — Great, my turn. It would look weird to run away now.
So, after a complicated series of hand gestures, saying "One" in three different languages, none of which was Russian mind you, and making exaggerated scissor motions did I finally get the message across to the woman from the Vodka commercial. She then tossed the robe across me and regarded me with a look of sympathy reserved for the village idiot.
At one point during the haircut the woman started a very animated, and completely incomprehensible, soliloquy that had me curiously alarmed, as she was looking directly at me in the mirror. I was beginning to formulate my plan of just saying "Da," as that would be easier than getting the fact across that I did not have my secret decoder ring on. But much to my relief the woman cutting my warrant's hair responded with a low mumble. They both nodded. Huh? Wonder what that was about.
Anyway, about eight minutes later I walked out, fortunately not looking like a shaved poodle, and passed by the tall, lanky, nervous-looking Aussie on his way in. As I left, I seriously contemplated taking my own picture of that moment — to take back with me the next time, so I could point and say, "Do this again."
The next time you go to get your hair cut or styled by your regular barber or whomever, appreciate that moment. And tip them well.
As we drove back to work, my warrant and I in the Toyota Surf with right-side drive, he looked at me and said without a hint of jocularity, "You know… their fathers probably served here once." Talk about perspective. Talk about irony.