I'll Have What She Had...?

It's already been a while since I went and got my first haircut in Dushanbe, but I took a second look at the business card that was handed to me when I got up out of the styling chair, and I decided there was probably a story there.

I guess I've been up to my usual hair thing here (I started to write "my usual former Soviet Union hair thing," but I guess I tend to do this in the US, too): I waited months and months to get it cut, putting it off, first because it didn't really need to be cut, I mean it wasn't an emergency or anything, and besides I didn't know where to go... Then we entered into emergency territory, or at least terrible-split-ends-and-tangling territory, but I still didn't really budge. Then I went to the US in November (mind you, my hair was previously cut I think at some point in early spring in Vladivostok?) and still didn't cut it.

I can hear you questioning my judgment on that one, just like Dan was a little surprised that I didn't get a cut in the States. You see, I just couldn't justify spending the money in the US, since I know that a haircut in Tajikistan, probably contrary to popular belief, will be just as good and yet much cheaper. I'm sure this is even true if you go to a fancy downtown salon, such as they exist here in Dushanbe (and I've heard they do exist -- one of Dan's female colleagues went recently for a "facial" at one such salon and I almost started laughing in spite of myself at the incongruity of it all), although your price break off of Western rates is going to be smaller at a place like that.

So I did my usual thing: I let myself get to the point of desperation and then went to the closest place I ran across where it didn't look like the stylist would totally butcher my hair. This time, random selection led me to "Anisabonu," a place identified by a sandwich-board perched outside one of the slightly rundown apartment buildings on the main boulevard in town, Rudaki (often touted as "the very first multistoried [meaning, more than about 3 floors] apartment buildings in Dushanbe!").

I went in the apartment building entrance (ratty as any in this part of the former socialist world), and only had to poke my head around a couple of seconds before it became clear that my "salon" (using the word loosely) was located in what must have been a converted apartment in the rear of the first, slightly elevated, floor of the building.

I know, it already sounds like I'm breaking my rule, but this is the thing with the former Soviet Union -- this kind of place actually is not as bad as it sounds. My theory of explanation goes like this: women in all areas of the FSU care so much more than average American women about what they look like and about formal beauty techniques and products than most of us do that hair stylists actually have to know what they are doing here, and are usually really well trained. Thus, even what looks like a ratty little salon is actually going to be a fine place to get your hair cut on a whim. And for cheap. So far this theory hasn't let me down (although if you extrapolate from my most recent wait to cut my hair, you will infer correctly that the sample size in my extended experiment is inherently abbreviated), not even on this most recent outing.

The thing that was funny about this was that the friendly stylist enthusiastically gave me her card, and since I liked the cut and her nice yet not-too-talkative demeanor I really only slightly less enthusiastically took it. I then of course proceeded to stuff it into my wallet, and only recently did I take a better look at it. Lest you get the wrong idea, my stylist looked nothing like the young lady pictured here, and neither did any of the rest of the clientele. And I'm not quite sure what Zalina is trying to communicate to her customer base with this card. Looking at it myself I think will actually prove a disincentive to return to her, as my memory of the unremarkable interior of the salon fades and all I have to jog my memory is this: