Raw

Most things are astronomically expensive in Hong Kong, so my approach to finding a hair salon was to walk up and down about 10 blocks in all directions looking for salons that (A) Didn’t look too fancy - after all, I don’t color my hair (yet!) and just need a simple trim most of the time, and (B) Had some character because I like to have fun things to look at while I sit there for 45 minutes.  Of course, I also checked the price list.  

I found the perfect fit - a salon called “Raw,” along a cool, funky shopping street called Aberdeen. And “Raw” is exactly that - A tiny little black door leading to a very intimate (Intimate - the equivalent of “charming” in real estate, but everyone knows intimate and charming usually mean VERY small) room that has an urban warehouse look. You enter into a miniature front desk with 2 seats for waiting customers and then through a doorway in between the black bars that make the place resemble a jail cell.  I can’t exactly put my finer on why I love this place, but my suspicion is that it is because the salon feels like a dark, slightly dangerous, and naughty Chipotle. This, of course, makes me feel like a badass and hungry at the same time. I like this feeling.

All the Chinese hair dressers have taken up English names, much like Nate has had to select a Chinese name to use at work.  When I call to make an appointment with Andrew, I can just imagine the guy covering the phone and quietly asking in mandarin, “Hey, which one of us is Andrew again?” Then they scribble on a scrap paper. I don’t actually think they use any sort of appointment book and a computer wouldn’t fit with the decor.  

So, after entering the jail cell, a 70+ year old Chinese man who speaks about zero english waves me back and motions for me to lay on the metal and leather hair washing chair. He is the only one breaking the hair dresser dress code of cropped, fitted sweatpants and a black v-neck t-shirt.  This guy is in linen pants, dress shoes, and a cable knit sweater.  I instantly think the regular hair washer must have called in sick and one of the hair dressers’ fathers was asked to pop in and do some shampooing as a favor that day.  Knowing only a few English words may actually be more problematic than knowing none. He asks “hot?” regarding the water temperature and I assume he’s asking if it’s TOO hot.  I reply “no, not too hot” and then feel scalding water start to burn my scalp.  Apparently he must have been asking if I wanted the water to be hotter.  After several minutes of minimally successful conversing, we got to a temperature that wouldn’t leave me with third degree burns. 

The next 40 minutes are sheer bliss with Andrew. I love having my hair played with and hate making forced small talk with strangers.  Andrew asks “how short you want?” and I show him by pinching a chunk of hair at the length I want it.  I know no mandarin and Andrew has already asked all the questions he knows in English. So, I just sit, close my eyes, and enjoy the haircut and blow drying.  We don’t say a word for the next half hour. It’s glorious. If tipping was a thing here, I would tip Andrew generously. Since it’s not, I go around the corner and spend that money on egg tarts and coconut buns because the dangerous, chipotle-like atmosphere of the salon has now increased my hunger level significantly despite already having 2 breakfasts.  All in all, this whole situation makes for a very enjoyable weekday morning!  I’ve never in my life followed the recommended “hair cut every 6 weeks” rule of thumb, but I am seriously considering implementing it!  

Also, if anyone knows where I can get a pair of killer cropped, fitted sweatpants, preferably with some badass features like side zippers that serve no functional purpose, please give me a shout. I feel it’s very important that I have a full range of lazy to super chic cotton stretchy clothing and this salon has made me realize I’ve been missing a vital component in my casual wardrobe!

Taken in Central on a beautiful winter day last week