Salutary tale for those who follow-do not have eyebrows ‘shave or pull off’ in Laos. Now, when it is too late, I know that the practise here is to take off the whole brow, using make up to draw a line. Because normally here eyebrows are thicker than western styles, so the only reason to be ‘plucked’ is to go bare ready for a special make up.
So when I tracked down a beauty salon and asked for waxing, off came the left eyebrow! In one fell ‘strip’.. At which point I got slightly hysterical. The therapist was genuinely upset, trying to draw it back on with a pencil. She realised it was not what I wanted, but neither of us were sure what to do!
The salon next door (another front door opened to reveal another therapist, wax bowl in hand) had the added bonus of a girl who knew a girl who knew a boy who spoke English, who was duly summoned. At which point the truth was revealed. No one’s fault, but I was/am missing one eyebrow.
By now a crowd had gathered and much discussion took place literally over my head. The new therapist set about my right eyebrow with barber’s razors, seriously, and tiny scissors. I’d given up and resigned myself to looking a prat so was beyond caring.
Fortunately the bizarre implements did work, my right side is as shapely as post an English salon. Shame about the left.
An eye brow pencil was handed over free for good will, so for £3 –seems to be the going rate for anything body wise-I will just have to remember not to turn my left side to the camera/people etc until hair grows back and, for the first time in many years, wear make up!! Bother. What with my very short hair and my lop sided face I could audition for a children’s cartoon character.
Feeling and looking rather silly, I furiously cycled off into the hills, completely forgetting that once out of this three road town the beaten tracks become rutted dirt paths, strewn with large stones and even larger holes. I bumped and ground my way through a quarry, past Buddhist cemeteries hidden in the bamboo grass, past duck ponds and rice paddies, many now darkened post burn (the air quality here is getting worse as more farmers are burning off), eventually coming to a halt in a small village high in the hills.
Here I was at once the object of much attention. Young kids on motorbikes zoomed over, surrounding me with stares and laughter. I was paranoid it was the eyebrows, but it seems more than not many tourists come this far, as I was greeted with kindness and a free, albeit dusty, bottle of Pepsi, sat on a wooden bench and asked to wave to babies, take photos of people and eat Laos griddle sausages –I managed to politely refuse the last request.
Gingerly making my way back down into the valley floor with sore muscles and a sunburnt nose to add to my ridiculous looks, I had to sit on my little balcony for a while nursing my woes.
Back onto the bike and up to the market for forage and then down winding tracks until I found a bend in the river where the locals make it their own. Here as often in Laos the two sides of the country were working alongside each other on the water; kayaks and tourist long boats plied the river while local fisherwomen bend double catching baskets of fish with their hands, men gathered wood, others used long poles to knock down the overhanging fruit trees, cows were herded down to drink, as the sun went down many people came down to bath, stripping off before dunking themselves in the all purpose waters.
I spent a pleasant hour with the fisherwomen being taught how to catch the fish hiding under the rocks (impossible, and my back is killing me, how do these women do this for hours on end every day!) while the passing tourists gave me odd glances. The women were lovely, keen to share food and drink as well as fishing tips, completely ignoring the incomers drifting downriver near by. As before, I sense with foreboding that progress will soon overtake this gentle nation.
This evening I met up with Heather for supper, a delicious shared meal of fried tofu in red curry paste and green tofu curry with steamed rice. Nothing happens in a hurry here, the family who run the well regarded local place overlooking the river take their time, but the food was superb. Finding good veggie food isn’t always easy –though there is a trendy organic café now on the ‘high street’ at inflated prices-but this meal was fantastic and very cheap, less than £1.50 with too much to finish. Worth the wait.
So when I tracked down a beauty salon and asked for waxing, off came the left eyebrow! In one fell ‘strip’.. At which point I got slightly hysterical. The therapist was genuinely upset, trying to draw it back on with a pencil. She realised it was not what I wanted, but neither of us were sure what to do!
The salon next door (another front door opened to reveal another therapist, wax bowl in hand) had the added bonus of a girl who knew a girl who knew a boy who spoke English, who was duly summoned. At which point the truth was revealed. No one’s fault, but I was/am missing one eyebrow.
By now a crowd had gathered and much discussion took place literally over my head. The new therapist set about my right eyebrow with barber’s razors, seriously, and tiny scissors. I’d given up and resigned myself to looking a prat so was beyond caring.
Fortunately the bizarre implements did work, my right side is as shapely as post an English salon. Shame about the left.
An eye brow pencil was handed over free for good will, so for £3 –seems to be the going rate for anything body wise-I will just have to remember not to turn my left side to the camera/people etc until hair grows back and, for the first time in many years, wear make up!! Bother. What with my very short hair and my lop sided face I could audition for a children’s cartoon character.
Feeling and looking rather silly, I furiously cycled off into the hills, completely forgetting that once out of this three road town the beaten tracks become rutted dirt paths, strewn with large stones and even larger holes. I bumped and ground my way through a quarry, past Buddhist cemeteries hidden in the bamboo grass, past duck ponds and rice paddies, many now darkened post burn (the air quality here is getting worse as more farmers are burning off), eventually coming to a halt in a small village high in the hills.
Here I was at once the object of much attention. Young kids on motorbikes zoomed over, surrounding me with stares and laughter. I was paranoid it was the eyebrows, but it seems more than not many tourists come this far, as I was greeted with kindness and a free, albeit dusty, bottle of Pepsi, sat on a wooden bench and asked to wave to babies, take photos of people and eat Laos griddle sausages –I managed to politely refuse the last request.
Gingerly making my way back down into the valley floor with sore muscles and a sunburnt nose to add to my ridiculous looks, I had to sit on my little balcony for a while nursing my woes.
Back onto the bike and up to the market for forage and then down winding tracks until I found a bend in the river where the locals make it their own. Here as often in Laos the two sides of the country were working alongside each other on the water; kayaks and tourist long boats plied the river while local fisherwomen bend double catching baskets of fish with their hands, men gathered wood, others used long poles to knock down the overhanging fruit trees, cows were herded down to drink, as the sun went down many people came down to bath, stripping off before dunking themselves in the all purpose waters.
I spent a pleasant hour with the fisherwomen being taught how to catch the fish hiding under the rocks (impossible, and my back is killing me, how do these women do this for hours on end every day!) while the passing tourists gave me odd glances. The women were lovely, keen to share food and drink as well as fishing tips, completely ignoring the incomers drifting downriver near by. As before, I sense with foreboding that progress will soon overtake this gentle nation.
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| Traditional Fisherwomen |
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