The inexorable ebb and flow of the tourists seems to be a bit more flowy than ebby at the moment, which is lovely because I’m a voyeur. Not necessarily in the ‘one who derives sexual pleasure from secretly observing other people… engaged in some sexual activity’ way, although who wouldn’t have a quick peek if the opportunity arose? No, I’m a voyeur in the ‘an obsessive observer of sensational or sordid objects’ sense of the word. And that’s sort of what tourists are.
Young ‘wonderful’ hair in Chiang Mai
I’m well aware that I too am a tourist in this gorgeous city, but I’ve been here for a while, and although I still have a sort of wide-eyed wonder at what is going on, it’s not quite as wide-eyed as a person who has just stepped of the ‘plane, train, or, God forbid, bus. Yet, although I adore watching people being excited about being in a place as fantastic as Chiang Mai is, it’s the hair that really obsesses the voyeur in me.
When did travelers’ hair get so wonderful? Wherever I look, I see hair the texture of clouds, of gossamer being wafted by the wings of a butterfly. I see silk woven by a monk whose words of silence have infiltrated every fibre of coiffure gorgeousness. I want to dive into these fluffy filaments of fibre and have a swim around; it would be like taking a cheeky dip in a pool of candyfloss.
I remember when I first went travelling. I was lucky enough to spend most of a year in Australia oh so many years ago. But I’ve seen photos of me and my hair from then. It’s all there, but it does look less like the Persian silk young people are currently sporting and more like straw, pissed on by a sheep, with a urinary tract problem.
Perhaps it’s the product. There is a lot of product, the fragrance of which permeates the beer and cigarette-smoke fug minutes before the bearer of a proud fringe of gorgeousness arrives in the bar. This is not the ubiquitous hairspray of the ‘80s that turned a mane into potential inferno if the wearer came closer than five metres to a lit cigarette. Oh no, This stuff is manufactured by chemists and physicists who could be curing cancer or putting people on Mars if they hadn’t been drawn to the magic of balms, unguents, oils and creams specifically designed to make hair look and feel like velvet.
I use product in my hair. Admittedly, it’s usually a branded shampoo from 7-eleven (although sometimes I do feel special enough to treat myself to the posh shampoo I nicked from the Bird’s Nest in Chang Dao), but I’ve never had anyone want to bury their face in it like I want to do with tresses of most of the boys and girls I see wondering around the moat.
That’s me getting my hair cut
But it’s not so bad having slightly disappointing hair. I have been blessed with a mop that has a will of its own because it negates all the fucking about with brushes, mirrors and small pots of hair wax. The last time I combed my hair was on the morning of my first day at a new school trying to repair the irreparable damage my mother had done with a pair of scissors in an attempt to ‘smarten me up a bit’. ‘Smarten up’ obviously in my mother’s eyes meant removing my fringe to make me look like a kid from some forgotten place in America who can play the banjo real good.
A long time ago my hair and I came to the amicable agreement that as long as we stay attached to each other we are allowed to do what we want. I still remember the naive barber who spent a good 15 minutes trying to persuade my locks to agree to a side-parting. Oh the shame as I think back to his enthusiastic determination. He didn’t manage it, of course, his professional pride was ruined and we had a cuddle, I said everything will be okay – ‘get back on your horse, soldier’ – he wiped a tear from his cheek, and popped his comb back in a beaker of blue liquid. What is that stuff? And while we are at it – shaving my neck? Why? What’s it like back there? I don’t think I’ve ever seen the back of my neck. Is there some weird beard thing going on that I don’t know about? Is it really something I should be paying attention to when I shave my face?
So, I salute you! You look absolutely gorgeous. You may ponce around like twats during the day soaking up the cancer that comes from the sun and cheap cigarettes in nothing more than shorts you think make you look like a surfer, but you all put on a bloody good show for the country that is hosting you with your magical hair. Stay gold.
Interesting that there is no English translation of voyeur, we had to borrow that one from the French. In fact the only synonym is ‘peeping tom’, so I was sort of born into the role – would that stand up in court? Anyway, back to my coming clean, for lack of a better verb, I’m a voyeur of tourists.