👩🏻‍🎤 Life Lessons From a £7 Haircut

Hello Restless Ones,

Happy sunny Sunday from Costa del Gloucester — where the kids spend at least half the day naked, and the paddling pool is getting plenty of splash-time.

Life in the Cotswolds is SO very good at the moment. We’re spending loads of time outside, I’m baking most afternoons (get me), in the gym a few times a week, running trails and generally feeling like life has rhythm and neat balance.

Schools here just kicked out here, so that means we’re going on tour to visit various cousins over the next month.

We’re also slotting plans into place for our next stint of travels in the autumn! More on that soon. Let’s just say I’m muy excited about where we’re headed.

Back to Thailand. On this sunny week, I’ve selected a tale about an equally sunny encounter with a local hairdresser.

Catch you next time,

Anna xxx

I’d ridden by the YES Hair! salon many times in the months on Koh Lanta. It was easy to miss, tucked next to a fancy western-style cafe, a simple wooden sign painted royal blue and YES HAIR! spray-painted in rough white letters.

And yet, its less-than-fancy façade had grabbed my attention. Far more than any ordinary salon would — you know, one of those places with photos of beautiful women and a flamboyant stylist called Rafael tutting over my split ends. From the outside, YES Hair! wasn’t a fussy place. I wasn’t a fussy person. I hoped we’d be a good match.

‘Welcome, welcome!’ A lady with dark hair in a ponytail put her hands together as I opened the glass door and gave a small bow. I stepped inside and returned the gesture. ‘Sawasdee ka.’

She introduced herself as Ploy. ‘Please come.’ She said, showing me to a reclined chair with a sink behind it in the far corner of the salon. ‘He will wash,’ Ploy smiled, gesturing toward a young man who appeared from behind the counter. Huh. A male assistant. Unusual, I thought.

The salon was simple. White-tiled floor, a couple of big mirrors, two mismatched leather chairs and one of those trolleys hairdressers wheel around loaded with bits ‘n’ bobs.

I was the only customer, although I could see a few other people through the archway behind the desk. I assumed they were family. Because that was often the way in Thailand; people live where they work, the spaces aren’t separated. Walking into YES Hair! felt as much like stepping into a living room as it did a place of work (albeit with a few more sinks than in my own living room).

I eased backward into the chair and, although not a forte, tried to relax. A TV screen on the wall by the sink displayed illustrated images of Buddhas, birds and plants, as well as a rolling carousel of quotes. Melodic meditation music filled the room, accompanied by a deep, heavily accented man’s voice, talking about pursuing a spiritual life. The quote on the screen at the moment I tipped my head back read:

‘Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.’

Once my hair was washed, Ploy ushered me to a chair in front of the mirror. Our eyes met in the reflection. She flashed me a beaming grin. I noticed a shock of bright red running through her black ponytail.

‘So!’ She rubbed the towel over my head vigorously, the way a mum does when a young kid gets out of a bath. ‘What you like?’

I told her how I usually ‘wore’ my hair, in the least faffy way possible, sides shaved, short curls left on top. ‘I’m not picky… and I trust whatever you want to do.’ I said.

‘OK, OK!… Oh, baby hair! You have so much baby hair.’ She played with the fluffy bits near my scalp that never really grow, then let out a righteous, full-belly laugh. ‘You ready?’ She grinned, scissors poised, as if we were about to attempt something epic.

Ploy started snipping and spraying, humming as she went, Buddhist affirmations floating over us every so often.

She asked if I lived on the island, and I explained what we were doing on our slow travels; how we wanted to spend time as a family and show the kids that the world is full of different people, living in different ways.

‘Ah yes. My family, we are spiritual. We believe in Buddha.’ She said.

‘Ah, I did wonder. I saw the TV and thought that was different. I know most people here are Muslim.’ I replied.

‘Yes. We not from Koh Lanta. We come from the north. The Buddha say if you want to learn about Buddhism then come, you learn — we welcome you. But if your friend, Muslim or Hindu, then that OK! You can believe different things and that is OK. We not have to believe all the same, not need to say: you must think same as we do! No. That not Buddha way. Buddha peaceful way, accept all things.’

‘Oh, that’s lovely. That’s what we try to teach our kids. That it’s okay to have a difference of opinion with someone. And to be different. That’s what makes the world a—’ I paused, searching for the word — ‘a colourful place.’

‘Yes! Colourful. Like you!’ She laughed.

‘And you.’

‘Oh yes, me too.’ She pointed to her shock of red hair. She let out another full-bellied laugh, then narrowed her eyes as she gathered up an especially long section of hair.

‘OK, say Bye bye dry ends!’ she said, making a triumphant snip.

‘Oh yeah, that bit gets like a giant mushroom,’ I was referring to the area of my hair which flops down and lose its curls when it gets too long.

‘Haha! Yes, like a mushroom. You grow in the forest!’ She laughed.

After a few more minutes of Ploy happily snipping my mushroomy fro, I asked about her family and whether she had any kids. She told me she had three children by two different dads.

‘My baby — first baby was a few months old when I met my husband. First husband, no good, bad man. I leave him. New husband, he kind to me. He take care of baby.’ There was a big age gap, she said — nine years; she was twenty-five when they met. ‘He very young, but he help me take care of baby. And he make me smile.’

‘Do you mind me asking — in Thai culture, was everyone okay with the age gap when you met?’

‘Huh?’ — she looked confused, and I wondered if I’d overstepped.

‘I mean, that you were older, and your second husband was so young?’

‘Oh yes! No problem. Everyone say — he a good boy. He kind. He good for you. You happy. Is OK.’ She shrugged and made another snip.

‘Ah, that’s lovely. And you’re still together?’

‘Oh yes! We have two more kids. My husband is the one who wash your hair. We be together until we old! He never get rid of me. Haha haha!’

We then talked about what her three kids were up to. One had moved away, a second one was just outside the shop with a friend of his, and her eldest son had just gone through conscription. ‘You know, in Thailand we have red card, black card?’ she asked.

I didn’t even know conscription was a thing in Thailand. Ploy explained it to me: every boy is called up at twenty and, unless he volunteers, it comes down to a lottery. Get a black card and you stay home. A Red one, you’re in for a year or two with the army.

‘All mothers wish for black card,’ she said. ‘But now he has red, I think — OK. Not be scared. Good experience for him. He come back strong man…’ There was a pause while she continued cutting.

‘OK. Mushroom gone! You just a baby mushroom now,’ she ruffled my hair.

I thanked her for the cracking job, and for sorting out the shroom. I was ready to leave but Ploy kept insisting on ‘just little bit more’ and got the buzz-cutter out to neaten up the edges around my neck.

She was busy banishing the final few wayward hairs when a delivery driver appeared at the salon door. Her husband went out to receive the package.

‘Ah! My husband, he order that — for snake,’ she said. ‘We find snake in our garden this week. He very excited to use it.’

‘Oh,’ I smiled. ‘A boy with a new toy, then?’

She laughed so hard that she put her buzz-cutter down and doubled over. She called over to the counter and translated the joke for her brother and son by the till. ‘Boy wit’ toy! Yes, he is like boy wit’ toy!’

When Ploy’s work was done, I handed over 350 baht (about £7) for the cut, plus a decent tip on top. I stepped back out into the street, new streamlined sides and now mushroom-free on top — wondering how her husband’s showdown with the snake was going to go, and hoping I didn’t meet any wrigglers of my own on the ride home. 🐍

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