Eng.Page Column 2006-10-04, Street vendors

Getting a man's hair cut in China isn't always easy. I've ventured upon numerous barber shops over the years where no one was ever available to cut my hair, despite an abundance of leggy female stylists standing invitingly at the door.
"The person who cuts hair isn't here today. You should go somewhere else if you want a haircut," said one buxom babe as I showed her my dried-out rock star mane. My first reaction was that business was so bad there was no need for a real hairstylist, and that the girls were all just friends hanging out or waiting for their boyfriends. It wasn't until I eavesdropped on a conversation between two American expats in a Beijing café one lazy winter afternoon that I started to understand what was really
going on. In a flash of eavesdropping enlightenment, I figured out why certain barber shops stayed open until 2 or 3 am, even though they never seemed busy. As my brain turned into overdrive, it revved past an old cluster of information stored on my cerebral hard drive since 1983 – a memory from boarding school.

12-year old Johnny Pryce, a happy-go-lucky class jester, had arrived late for evening study and the college dean asked him to explain himself. "I got a haircut, Father." "Why did it take so long?" asked the priest. "Well, Father, I decided to get the whole works: a wash, cut and a blow job – all for five quid. It was great value." The room erupted with laughter, even though most of the adolescents didn't get the joke that Johnny never meant to make. They were laughing at Johnny's haircut, which made his rather comical head look even more comical than normal. And when the priest reached out to whack the back of Johnny's newly visible neck, there was even more laughter. Father O' Feely's chair slipped from under him as he overextended, and Johnny managed to sidestep the plump one's awkward swipe, aided by the aerodynamics of the new haircut.
It was a seminal moment in my arrested development. The Johnny Pryce incident had got me thinking. "What if I could get a hair cut and a blow job at the same time? Wouldn't that be great?" This was something I wanted to try when I grew up, after becoming a professional footballer and a secret agent. Back in Beijing's Café Casanova, the two American sexpats were discussing the merits of morning visits to their local Wenzhou-style barber shop-cum-massage parlour.
"It's great, dude. I just love to go there after a night shift to help me wind down. I get a happy end and I go home to bed. It's better than taking sleeping pills, man."
A happy end? I'd heard about that in the movies. Was this what made Johnny Pryce look so happy as he arrived late for study all those years ago? I needed to investigate. But not before I finished eavesdropping on Chad and Matt. "Man, there was this day when me and some buddies who were visiting from Kansas wanted to get a happy end before heading out to the bars, but we didn't have much money. So I went in and bargained to get three happy ends for 75 Yuan each," said a proud Chad.
That's a reasonable price for happiness, I thought to myself, as I twisted my ear even further around the corner to pick up on Chad's insights. "Then this chick brought me into a cubicle and started wrapping cling film around my Johnson. I think they were trying to save money on the real thing. I felt like tellin' the girl 'He's not a sandwich, you know, baby.' In the end, the cling film got all tight and creased and I was in real pain, dude. But I was laughin' so hard at the chick's face because she was in such a hurry to get finished, that I forgot. But the next day, man, I was in agony."
Agony? I thought a happy end was supposed to be 'happy'… Cling film? Why cling film? Was it a Chinese thing? I needed to go undercover to find out.

I put on a dark high-necked t-shirt to cover up my lush lock of chest hair and slipped into an old tracksuit and dirty runners. I switched my mojo into neutral, to ensure the objectivity of my research, and made my way to the nearest barberless barber shop.
As I entered the salon, I gave a quick inspection of all three 20-something girls seated on the red PVC sofa. Another lady, probably in her mid-thirties, sat in the barber's chair, exhibiting her superiority. She was the boss. I glanced back at my choice of hairstylists and chose the girl with the tight black mini-skirt, white boots and purple mohair sweater. She was petite but busty, with pouty lips and pale clear skin – her only blemish was slightly discolored teeth.
"Short back and sides please," I said jokingly as she guided me into a small grimy bedded cubicle down the end of a narrow hallway and pulled the curtain closed. Her name was Ding. "Can you do that ding to me that you do to the other guys," I asked her in English, playing a cheap joke with myself.
She didn't understand but laughed at my laugh to keep the atmosphere light. Ding started to massage me as I relaxed and waited to see what would happen. Eventually, after about five minutes squeezing my arms and slapping her cupped hands on my legs, Ding switched her attention to my major erogenous zone and asked: "Would you like a big airplane?"
"What is she trying to say?" I asked myself. A big airplane? What's that got to do with massage? Reacting to the frown on my face, Ding made a hand motion to clarify what she meant. "Oh, so that's what you call it in China," I said. "Ok, let's give it a go, then." Ding helped me take my airplane out of the hangar, before suddenly shouting at her colleague in the cubicle next door to come and assist her. The curtain opened suddenly and in popped another mini-skirted hairstylist. "Look at this," said Ding to her friend. "It's very unusual, isn't it. Wow!"
I'm very proud of my manhood, but felt a tad embarrassed at all the attention it was getting. It was like the whole massage parlour knew my business and was spreading the word. And when a sweaty fifty-something male client with an even sweatier comb-over stuck his head into the cubicle for a look, I decided I'd had enough. I pulled my trousers back up and made for the door. No happy end for me. Johnny Pryce had better luck.