I wrote earlier about my ambiguous ethnicity here in Ireland. Never am I picked as an Irishman, and rarely as an American. No one has even really identified me as a Midwesterner. As for anything beyond that, no. But the hair, the hair's the monkey wrench. It's not as if I haven't seen lads and lasses with dreadlocked tresses in Dublin, but it is an uncommon sight. And surprisingly to me, rarely has there been leers or sneers thrown my way by observers as I walk the streets. The only real moment of visual derision that I saw was from the landing crew at the airport. It was as much befuddlement as disdain. Ashley and I hatched a plan to cut my hair either shortly before Galway, or when we got back. It's a decision that I had been considering for a number of weeks, and not one I took lightly. But I had decided that I was going to cut my dreadlocks off after 7 years of sporting them. Not only was it for cosmetic reasons (the weight of the dreadlocks was starting to make me preternaturally bald, a prospect that makes me shudder), but the shits and giggles that would follow seeing my fiancé not recognize me at the airport, and the astonishment upon her mother's face just one week after was incentive enough to make the change. I'd also decided to change the color. Because if you're going to cut off 7 pounds of hair (yes, you read that right, seven pounds), you might as well go full-tilt boogie and change the hue as well.
I've never dyed my hair black before. I've had it dark on occasion, a terrible dark maroon job from junior year in college comes to mind, but I thought dying it black would be the most sufficient distinction I could make from the "old Theo." Remarkably, after getting it done, a number of people questioned, "did you dye it?," as if they weren't sure if my hair without dreadlocks was naturally this dark.
So, like any good academian, I did research as to where I could best acquire my follicular makeover. After seeing the prices at a salon close to my house off Griffith Ave., at €20 for the cut and €75 for the color, I just knew there had to be someplace cheaper. I mean, come on, I'm not a woman going to Paul Mitchell's. I took an afternoon down in the city centre to poke around and find a more affordable option, only to be disappointed by nothing quoted as under €100. They were all excellent salons, filled with lovely ladies and effeminate lads with cutting shears and garden weasels at hand to cut the "mess" upon my head.
After consulting with Brid, my host mum, she said I could find a much more agreeable price if I looked at the Polish salons. During the influx of Polish labor during the Celtic tiger, one of the professions that burgeoned with foreign labor from from Eastern Europe was hair salons. Willing to perform a dry cut for €5 put them on par with any Borics or supersalon found in middle America. One of the native Irish salons told me I'd have to do a skin test to make sure the hair dye wouldn't cause an allergic reaction. No such need at the lower tier salons. Hives? Rashes? No problem, as long as we give you the color you want. I eventually found my way to a small salon run by a Chinese immigrant who had been in Ireland for over 7 years. Interestingly, his shop lie in what appeared to be "foreigner hair salon row." I could have had my locks redone from the Cameroonians around the corner, shaved by the Russian girls with the €5 euro and barber pole motif. But I decided I should trust my hair to Shun, with his Vietnamese nail technician partner (yeah, apparently that's a global stereotype).
The only problem I had was when I originally told Shun I wanted to cut my hair off, he assumed he would be shaving my head. A slight negotiation in price resolved how much hair I would be allowed to keep. As he snipped off the first lock, I did panic a little. My heart sank as half a decade disappeared from my head. The cutting process took about 30 minutes, after which I astutely bagged up my hair (that's like 3 iguana pillows worth of hair -- long story, ask me later). Overall, the process was pretty painless. I did get a few head rushes when I stood up, but losing 7 pounds from your noggin will do that. After we were finished dying the hair Cool Black, (it's blue, like Dick Grayson! Nerd points if you get that.) My coif was styled into a righteous faux hawk.
Oddly, despite the compliments and the number of people in the shop who suggested the new look was quite "grand," I felt quite self-conscious about the massive change. It actually might take months to truly get used to the change. I did notice I received more smiles from the Irish female populace, and I by no means claim to be handsome. But even a bulldog looks cute with a bow.
As for the shock and awe upon those who didn't recognize me, check out the video below:
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