A Change of Scenery

While we were still awaiting our assignments, we had to qualify yet again with our firearms.  The firing range was about a 30 minute ride from our camp, and a nice diversion from the classroom training and other administrative tasks. 

The range was much different from any I’ve fired on before.  Instead of the ranges back home, where an earthen berm, maybe 30 to 40 feet high was bulldozed into place, the backdrop here was natural (and much more dramatic).  We were higher in the mountains with the slopes acting as a protective barrier behind the targets.  It was a pretty spectacular background.

Nice!…Shooting under blue skies, at the foot of big mountains, and breathing a little fresh air – but still HOT!!!

As I mentioned in an earlier post, the “hotel” maintains a full-service salon where manicures, pedicures, massages, and haircuts could be had.  Having left my clippers at home, I decided to get cleaned up since I was looking a bit shabby. 

Before telling you about my first in-country haircut, and in the spirit of full disclosure, I should first admit to the prejudice I hold towards many former Soviet-bloc countries.  Growing up during the cold war, in the 1950’s and ‘60’s, I figure it’s natural for me to have a disdain for those whom I considered to be “commies”.  All that’s necessary for my bias to surface is the slightest hint of an accent that even remotely sounds like Russian.  That being said, the employees of the salon were women from countries to the north of Afghanistan – Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan; all of which of course, were once part of the former Soviet Union.    

Having heard that the hair dresser (an attractive woman, with red hair and blue eyes, perhaps in her late thirties) was from one of the previously mentioned countries, I took my seat in the chair with some apprehension.  She snapped the nylon cloak in the air before placing it over my shoulders, and fastening it around my neck.  Looking at my reflection in the mirror, she asked, “Vat do ju von me to do?” Assuming that she might not be able to understand what I was saying, I tried my best to gesture and explain that I wanted my hair cut somewhat short; but not too short.  At that, she immediately turned on the clippers, thrust my head away from her, and dug the clippers back and forth, violently into the right side of my head.  After scraping at my scalp four or five times, she forcefully turned the right side of my head towards the mirror and asked in her “Russian” accent, “How ees dat?”  With her hand still forcibly tilting my head toward one side, I strained to see the fruits of her labor - pale swaths of newly cut scalp.  Of course, I knew that if she changed the setting to allow for less hair to be cut, I would still have the tell-tale signs of a haircut gone awry.  I half-heartedly acquiesced and replied, “Yeah, that’s fine.”  The damage was done. Despite her good looks, my contempt was confirmed:  “Friggin commies…!”

After a few more days of sitting on hard plastic chairs doing computer work, I decided to spring for $20.00 for a 30 minute massage.  Again, I was feeling a bit uneasy since my last experience with the hair stylist left me with all but the most inconspicuous stubble on my head.  What kind of conspiracy might the ladies of the salon have contemplated in order to get back at the Americans and their capitalist ways?  

The masseuse was a larger woman with, as Patti described them, “Popeye forearms.” In comparison to the hairdresser, her features were more Asian.  In my twisted mind, however, that merely meant that while she looked “less Russian”, she probably had some connection to communist China – I couldn’t win!  I stretched out, face down on the table...and that was it!  I’m sorry to say that it was somewhat anti-climactic.  I don’t recall much, since soon after she started to ply my muscles, I fell into a deep sleep.  It was if I had been knocked out.  I woke up to the woman with the big forearms repeatedly saying to me, “OK. Ees over.  Ees over!”  She probably thought that I died on the table.  As I exited the salon, I told Patti that I thought the commies drugged me; but all in all, I left feeling pretty good after my massage (and after checking my wallet).