I sit patiently in the barber chair awaiting my turn. The back wall of the salon is made of glass and from my perch I can watch the flurry of activity found below on Fuxing Lu. People stream past; some seem to have a particular objective or destination in mind while others simply push forward in a chaotic bundle. They are all very protective of their respective space and one can almost hear the grunting and shuffling as elbows fly and shoulders bump. How did New Yorkers learn to march forward along the conveyor belt while maintaining their personal space? In Shanghai, a city that is so full of stimuli, people seem to control their perception and not becoming distracted by a flashing neon sign or the cell phone conversation of a nearby passenger on the bus.
To the left I see that a number of Chinese Ayis (term used for both a nanny and cleaning lady) have gathered near a small plaza and chat amongst themselves while grabbing from a plethora of shared plastic containers and sacks. I can almost see the grease dripping from their fingertips as they gesticulate. Every so often they turn their head and spit, a small pile of bones collecting on the city street. The children under their care run in their midst and while none of the children are Chinese, I am certain that their tongues flap madly in Mandarin. It is always astonishing to meet a child in Shanghai and find that he is normally learning 3-4 languages simultaneously. These same children grow up accustomed to having a driver, a maid and a nanny (who spoils them relentlessly) and as a result, often cannot adapt to a more modest existence when their parents are repatriated. Frankly, they often cannot adapt to being under their parents care during the weekend since their parents use the word ‘no’ liberally whereas this word is never uttered by the nanny.
The street is cluttered with an endless stream of vendors and these are the same I saw yesterday, the same I will see tomorrow. Some smile and nod in my direction and I wonder if they recognize me or are try to engage me in a game of barter. Some vendors have their wares spread over a moth-bitten blanket and others store their wares in a pushcart; the same one they brought with them when immigrating to Shanghai from their village. Their faces are burnt, their features are rough, and their smiles are anxious. During the build up to the Olympics the police patrolled the streets to eliminate any apparent vestige of the floating population and force them to create their dormitories in the hidden alleyways where tourists did not tread.
Those vendors who have managed to purchase the 2.35USD permit have set up small stalls made of plywood and chunks of scrap metal. Although these flimsy constructions are not marked, each vendor has defined his spot on the road and has taken a step towards empowerment. Since the bits and pieces of construction material have been recycled, the colors-textures-peeling-posters are blinding and the effect somewhat chaotic. I see my favorite pseudo-Wal-Mart vendor selling fake bags, underwear, bundles of herbs, phone cards and combs fashioned out of bones (I do not dare inquire as to the animal source for the comb). Nearby is the man who wheels about a modified barrel oven filled with coal which slowly roasts sweet potatoes; their wrinkled and blackened skins hide the sweet and moist flesh found inside. He stands in front of Parsons, a musical instrument shop where wealthy patrons of the arts indulge their musical fantasies and purchase violins. Their fingers have a different sort of exposure. On the other side of the road and near the entrance to our building is the tofu lady. The fumes emanating from her makeshift stove are pungent and they seem to penetrate ones every movement on the entire block. When I enter the elevator in my building I continue sweep away the lingering smells yet she always has a line of clients waiting to purchase her smelly-tofu-fried-in-recycled-dirty-oil. Perhaps it is her lovely smile.
Thousands of cars, bicycles and taxis seem to vie for dominance on the road. There is little mercy and drivers fail to use turning signals or politesse - pushing their way into a coveted space, honking all the while. Thankfully only cars and pedestrians can enter the precariously small, dusty and intriguing lanes which vein off the main road.
I am startled out of my vicarious experience by a young Chinese man who has quietly come to stand to my left, his tiny frame giving off a shadow. Despite his revolutionary spiked blond hair, earring and studded acid-washed jeans, his smile is timid and renders his revolutionary front as not very viable. I stand, expecting to be accompanied to the washing basin, but am surprised as he gently nudges me back into my chair. Without any warning, he squirts liquid from a plastic bottle onto my scalp and begins to massage. One can only assume - due to the immense lather accumulating on the top of my head - that the liquid is shampoo. He continues to squirt, seemingly comfortable with the proportions, and sings along with the Justin Timberlake video flashing on the large television screen. It is MTV, illegally tapped from Manila. A pompadour of clouds appears on my head and I fall prey to his magical fingers, dreading its inevitable end. 10 minutes later I trudge to the washbasin wishing that I could have just a few more minutes of massage. Please? I close my eyes and again relax as he massages the lather out of my hair, startled as he sticks a q-tip into my ear and proceeds to clean what I deem to be a fairly intimate space.
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