Really? Another post about haircuts?

So there's this tiny neighborhood barber shop around the corner that Lian and I pass on our way to the good duck soup & noodle shop on Thapae Road. The owner waits expectantly at the door, casting puppy-dog eyes on passers-by. His eyes are all we can see of his face, as he wears a white surgical mask on the job. He and Lian chat briefly and the price sounds pretty decent -- did I hear him say 150 baht? What the heck, all I need is a quick clipper-cut, so I decide to give him a try.

Awaiting my turn in the chair.

After selecting my style preference from the gallery of male celebrity photos clipped from magazines and taped to the wall (I go for the close-cropped Sam Worthington look), I plop down in the chair and he sets to work. Ever ... so ... slowly. He seems to be progressing hair by hair, always asking after every snip: "Is this OK? Is this OK?" At last we are finished. Or not: this barber then proceeds to give me a scalp massage, followed by a shoulder massage. And then he breaks out the shears again for a few finicky touches.

Rising, I pull out my wallet and ask how much. He replies almost apologetically: "Ha-sip baht, khrep?" Fifty baht, roughly a buck-sixty. In other words, ten times less than a Super Cuts slash job back in Oregon. I hand him a 100-baht note and signal to keep the change. He is overcome with astonished gratitude and will not let me leave the shop until he can do more for me -- "Shampoo? I give you shampoo!" So it's into the reclining sink-chair for a long, luxurious wash-and-rinse, followed by yet another scalp massage.

Lian watches this extended pampering and announces: "I have a wash hair, too." So then it's my turn to wait and wait.

---

A haircut reminder for Lian's son.

In the Thai school system, when a teacher is dissatisfied with the length of a male students hair, he informs the parents not with a written note or a phone call, but by shaving a divot into the student's scalp! One night Dao comes home with these mangy-looking gashes cut into his hair, and I ask Lian if she is OK with this. She has no idea what I'm getting at. "Every secondary school in Thailand, children cannot long hair," she says. "Is not polite."

Thai parents do not see it as a personal violation the way most American moms and dads would. Thais simply have a different relationship to authority and it's always fascinating to note how it manifests itself, from deference to teachers to reverence for their king.

---

For the longest time I've stuck (pretty much) to a "when in Rome ..." policy about food, eschewing western cuisine in favor of noodle joints and open-air markets. I would stroll smugly past the sidewalk diners at the fancy American restaurant, The Duke's, and think: "Just look at those wide load farang in there scarfing on ribs and burgers and pizza," while on my way for a steaming, spicy bowl of tom yum or som tam or whatever Thai food name I'm forever mispronouncing. 

A dessert so huge, it requires two utensils.

But you can deny who you are and what you're made of for only so long. And lately my thoughts about The Duke's have taken on a Homer Simpson voice: "Mmm, ribs and burgers and pizza ..." Finally I relent and drag poor Lian along for a mid-afternoon American-style dessert.

Keep in mind, a Thai "dessert" comes in a small dish and might include kidney beans, water chestnuts, squash and other such salad-bar detritus, only modestly sweetened. So Lian is unprepared for the massive sugar-bomb apple pie and softball-size scoop of vanilla ice cream set before her. She gamely picks at it but prefers my carrot cake, also mega-portioned.

Am I satisfied? Not yet! A few nights later I up the ante.

Lian has a two-hour customer in the evening, so I promise to take charge of dinner. After she leaves, I ask Dao: "Ghin pizza, dai mai?" He grins and nods. I know that his mother has never tasted the stuff, but she's about to get her first opportunity.

Before ...

Waiting in the bar at The Duke's for my pie -- large pepperoni, Italian sausage and garlic chicken pizza, to go -- I bask in the Stanford's-like vibe, watching the parade of comfort food float by: medium-rare steaks and mashed potatoes, ginormous burgers and fries, racks of ribs from the real smoker out back, spaghetti and meatballs, all my favorite culinary porn. Twenty minutes later my pizza arrives and it is ridiculously huge but beautiful.

... and after.

"Oh boy, lots of leftovers for me," I think. But no: the pizza, which I doctor with sauteed onions, Thai peppers and tomatoes, is enthusiastically received. The 100-pound Thai lady and the skinny child manage to consume all but two slices; OK, I helped a little.

---

That's it for another episode. Tomorrow evening I enter the big silver cocoon once again to begin my 24-hour transformation from sweaty farang into freezing Oregonian. Sawat dii khrep, Merry Christmas and see you soon.

Festive Christmas attire from sidewalk vendor.