Barbershop of Horrors

By William Urbanski

As a foreigner/expat/immigrant here in Korea, there is perhaps a no more terrifying experience than getting your hair cut. Even now, well over ten years deep in Korea, each time I open the door to a barbershop, my hands get sweaty and my heart rate goes through the roof. There is something inherently unsettling, something I think we all dislike on a primal level, about someone holding and using sharp blades so close to your cranium. This completely justifiable aichmophobia (I had to look that word up) is compounded by the linguistic difficulties in communicating this simple idea to a Korean barber: “Please don’t make me look like one of the Three Stooges.”

The trials and tribulations of getting a decent haircut eventually led me to develop a rigorous and scientific system to minimize the chances of getting a wacky wig buzz. The first step was to scope out a place at different times of the day to make sure there were actual clients and that it did not look terrible. If all looked well, I would enter and deliver my go-to Korean phrase, perfected over countless iterations of haircutting follies: gawi-ro jjapge (가위로 짧게, cut it short with scissors). The last step was to smile, as opposed to smiling and talking, with the overall goal of not getting too chatty and avoiding the otherwise inevitable, banal, and utterly meaningless barber–client dialogue about my ability to eat spicy kimchi.

After a recent move to a new part of the city, I had to set out on a new quest to find someone I trusted to snip my dome. It was around this point that I remembered the place where I used to get my hair cut for many years in Sinan-gun, the island county west of Gwangju. This place, straight out of the 1970s, was as barren as barren could be and even somewhat dingy. Old men, friends of the grizzled barber, I assume, would sit around in there smoking cigarettes and gambling while talking at the top of their voices about god knows what. But, oh, what a haircut! Perfectly done every time, including a razor shave and a shampoo all for the rock bottom price of six thousand won. This overwhelmingly positive and years-long experience with a barbershop that I never would have given a second look at in Canada was the impetus to go back to the basics in my haircut crusade. Would the gambit pay off? Read on to find out.

Into the Unknown
For the purposes of science (and your reading enjoyment), I intentionally sought out three of the oldest, most uninviting, and least modern hair salons in the east end of the city. Spoiler alert: everything started out great and then went summarily downhill.

The first hair salon, or miyong-sil (미용실), occupied a building that, after a furtive glance, appeared either condemned or abandoned. While bracing myself for some unintentional urban exploration, I pulled back the curtain hanging in the front door and, man alive, there was a woman alive in there! While the overall ambiance left a lot to be desired (concrete floors, old furniture, faded photos cut out of magazines hanging on the wall), the service and end result were truly top-notch. The hair stylist did pretty much exactly what I wanted, washed my hair and even requested a selfie since I was apparently the first foreigner to ever set foot in her establishment. This hair salon was so good that I actually went back a second time. Emboldened by this great experience, I decided to roll the dice again and test my luck with some other barbershops that lacked, shall we say, curb appeal. And thus began my descent into darkness.

Barbershop number two was a place I had walked by numerous times, and I distinctly remember saying to myself, “Who would ever get their hair cut here?” This place was actually in a fairly modern building but was almost comically small. I was almost relieved when it appeared that nobody was inside, but lo and behold, a figure emerged from the shadows and informed me that yes, he could cut my hair. The barber seemed attentive enough, if not excruciatingly slow, which was understandable considering that he appeared to be approximately two days younger than Yoda. Oddly though, he did not actually appear to be cutting much of my hair as evidenced by the lack of clippings on my apron. About a day or two later, when he was wrapping up, and much to my chagrin, he doused me with some sort of baby powder that got all over my clothes, particularly my black work pants. I was pretty nonplussed about the whole ordeal but realized later that perhaps I was being just a little too harsh. After all, he did give me a nice little trim.

Barbershop of Horrors
A month or so later, I finally mustered up the courage to walk into an ibal-gwan (이발관, barbershop) that I had been purposely avoiding since I moved to the area. Located in a building that was ripped straight from a 1970s slasher film, the bars on the windows led me to believe this business must have been established when Gwangju was not the safe community it is today. Vis-à-vis the other establishments in this article, this was the only one that stirred up deep feelings of nervousness and immediate regret. I sat unnoticed on a plastic sofa for some time before being acknowledged and beckoned over to the barber chair.

Now, I have had hundreds of haircuts in my day and never once have I been so completely disregarded and ignored by a barber who seemed to have a genuine disinterest in what his customer requested. If the previous barber reminded me of Yoda, this dude seemed to be somehow related to Skelator but whose special power was repeatedly putting his decrepit finger into my ear. Luckily, at least one of the other maskless patrons seemed to take an interest in me and, more than once, put his face mere centimeters from mine while breathing heavily. Then, in what could only be considered a cruel and sadistic twist, when I asked the barber to trim my hair just a little shorter like I had asked him the first damn time, he replied that my hair was not cuttable. Yeesh!

Upon leaving and vowing never to return, the same patron who breathed in my face revealed the biggest twist of all: The barber was actually deaf! This was one of the rare instances in my life where something explained everything and nothing all at the same time. Sure, it elucidated why the man was ignoring my requests but also made me wonder why and how the shop opened its doors every day. Afterall, is it not a basic prerequisite of any business to listen to the customers? This harrowing ordeal made me realize that no matter the social role a barbershop may play, if it does not offer a good service, it serves no purpose.

Aftermath
Despite the tragic end of my hair shop saga, overall, I was pleasantly surprised by the service I got at the first two places I visited. In the words of my hero, Meatloaf, “Two outta three ain’t bad,” so remember that appearances can be deceiving and that at the end of the day, almost every barbershop will do at least a passable job. If you do happen to stumble across an awful one, try to keep in mind that your hair will almost certainly grow back.

Photograph by William Urbanski.

The Author
William Urbanski is the managing editor of the Gwangju News. He is from Canada, married, and can eat spicy food with chopsticks.
Instagram @will_il_gatto