The Perpetual Discomfiture of Existence Abroad

It’s been nearly three months since I’ve written a blog post. A lot of interesting/noteworthy things have happened to me in this time span that are certainly worth mentioning. The reason that I have failed to mention them is partially due to unrelenting laziness, but mostly due to the fact that the longer you live in a foreign country, the less foreign it seems. All of those things that confused and amused me initially now seem so common that the urgency of talking about them seems less necessary. The maniacal swerving of taxi drivers, the unapologetic disregard for spatial awareness when walking anywhere, and the dried squid sold as a snack in convenience stores have all come to be expected, and it would now only seem abnormal if these realities didn’t exist. The feeling of awkwardness that was previously ubiquitous now only comes along in short-lived, fleeting moments. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt profoundly awkward for longer than a few minutes…until last Saturday. It was on this fortuitous day that I was reminded of exactly how weird it is to live a foreign existence.

It started off with a sleep-deprived trip to the hair salon. This was my first haircut since October, and my first haircut in Korea. I’ve been putting it off for quite some time. You see, I belong to that miniscule demographic of straight women who don’t enjoy having their hair done. While most women find special head treatment to be relaxing and pampering, it usually just causes me to feel immensely guilty and depressed. Guilty for the thick mass of tangles atop my head. Guilty that the colorist has to go back to mix more color two or three times due to underestimation. Guilty that the person who comes in after me always has to wait 30 minutes even though I warn the stylist in advance that this will probably be an issue and she should pencil me in for extra time. Nobody believes it. Nobody believes it until they see it. Furthermore, I feel guilty for my almost complete lack of social etiquette. I am fiercely repelled by small talk, particularly the variety of small talk that typically takes place in hair salons. I feel like I always bore my stylist to death with my one word answers and insufficient concern about who got the boot on “The Bachelor” last night. I always try to remedy this issue by forcing myself to do an unreasonable amount of smiling so as to suggest “It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s just that I’m socially inept!” Additionally, there is something disturbing about sitting in a chair and being compelled to stare at yourself for long intervals. You are never forced to focus on your head so much as when everything below your neck is covered in towels and your hair is covered in goop. It isn’t until then that you realize just how huge your head is. (I mean that in a literal, not metaphorical, sense.) Everything on your face becomes amplified. Your eyebrows look uneven, your nose looks obese, and your jaw line looks masculine. Your double chin suddenly looks like an unfortunate tumor that has been present since birth. The mole on your cheek that you used to think added character now just looks extremely unbecoming. The dark circles beneath your eyes look more pronounced under the unflattering lighting. Roughly 95% of the time, I hate what any stylist does to my hair, but I will never admit this to the hairdresser. I always act as though I am profoundly pleased with their work because (a) I don’t want them to feel bad, and (b) I already feel guilty enough for having merely stepped into the salon. They could probably shave me bald and I would respond with a resounding two thumbs up.

For these reasons, I found it incredibly difficult to pick up the phone and make an appointment, but my damaged split ends finally provoked me into just getting it over with. I opted to go to the same salon that roughly 90% of the foreign population goes to, which is run by an English speaking Italian/Australian man named Roberto. Because the salon gets so much business from foreigners, I wasn’t expecting this trip to the salon to be all that different than it would be back home, and apart from the translator who communicated between me and my colorist, it really wasn’t…until Roberto began cutting my hair. The moment I sat down to begin the haircut, a group of 4-5 Koreans who worked in the salon crowded around my head, observing the Australian protégé working his miracles on an impossible head of frizzy ringlets. I don’t know if it is the typical policy of the salon to have this many assistants helping out with one head, or if they were just seizing the opportunity to see how one goes about cutting hair of a certain volume and texture, but in any event, it felt just a touch excessive. Frankly, I don’t know what could possibly go so awry with my hair that Roberto would need the assistance of 4 people, but unless he inadvertently cut a gaping hole into my temple, I will never feel comfortable with that much special attention.

After my hair appointment, I embarked on a mission to find black flats, as I ruined mine last weekend at the mud festival, a giant party on the west coast of Korea which is inhabited almost entirely by foreigners who are looking for any excuse to get drunk and half-naked while playing in the mud. I spotted one shoe store that looked promising from the window, so I waltzed in. I knew it was a mistake immediately when I stepped into the store and I was the only customer facing a crowd of four smiling salespeople in a confined space. They all decided that they desperately wanted to try to speak to me in my native tongue while simultaneously trying to sell me a pair of grossly overpriced flip flops that suffered from the triple misfortune of being unattractive, uncomfortable, and too small. They succeeded in both missions. After unwillingly trying on four or five pairs of shoes that I didn’t select for myself, I spotted some flip flops that weren’t hideous and looked cheap enough to make me feel less guilty about compulsively buying shoes that I didn’t need. I tried them on and my heel spilled an inch over the back of them. The salesgirl tried to convince me that they were a perfect fit, but when I looked at her dubiously she decided to send another girl off to the mystery shoe warehouse in another building to dust off the shoes reserved for big-footed people with special needs. As soon as she left, the other two girls jovially requested, “Let’s have a conversation!” If a native English speaker would make this same blunt request of me, I would find it profoundly challenging. When this request is made by someone with a limited grasp of the English language, I find it utterly impossible. For me, nothing feels more unnatural than being forced to speak on command…except perhaps being forced to speak on command to someone who doesn’t understand an overwhelming majority of the words coming out of my mouth. What does one say to someone with a limited English capacity? “What is your favorite color?” came to mind, as did “Do you like fruit?” After a few uncomfortable seconds, I eventually settled on “Have you always lived in Daegu?” She didn’t understand this. “Daegu. You live. Always?” I said. For reasons that remain a mystery, I presumed that if I reversed the order of this sentence it might sink in. It did not. “How old are you?” I tried again with a less complex but potentially rude question. “You think,” she responded after a moment. Having been here long enough now to understand the subtleties of minimalist language, I knew she wanted me to guess her age. “22?” I asked after staring at her long enough to pretend like I was scientifically gauging her probable age. “Ohhh!” she said, utterly delighted that I am clearly psychic. “22 Korean age. 21 your age.” Ages in Korea aren’t based on the calendar year with one’s actual date of birth. It’s somehow more complicated than that here. As soon as I begin to understand the complexities of Korean age, I will attempt to explain it to you. So after exhausting my one and only question, the girl fortunately came back with the sandals I didn’t actually want, and I have never been happier to see something I didn’t like in all my life. I would have gladly forked over 30 bucks just to get out of that situation; the footwear was merely a bonus.

On my way back to Chilgok, it began to lightly rain and I didn’t have the foresight to bring my umbrella with me. Standing at a stoplight, waiting for it to turn green, an older woman said something to me that I didn’t understand and then covered my head with her umbrella. We walked along together for a few blocks as she prattled on in a language I have a shamefully low proficiency in, while I smiled a little embarrassedly. After we parted ways, I found myself wondering if this could ever possibly happen back home. If a Mexican, Chinese, or Indian immigrant were walking down a rainy street in America sans protection, would someone casually lift an umbrella over his or her head, or would they walk by with bitter condescension, silently wishing that the aforementioned immigrants would just “go back to their own country?” The life of an immigrant is very different in Korea than it is in America. Foreigners in Korea are usually treated with curiosity. Foreigners in America are usually treated with hostility. While it can certainly be a bit irritating at times to be regarded as a particularly amusing museum exhibit rather than an actual human being, I would not exchange my foreign existence in Korea for the foreign existence of someone who comes to my country to live. I don't think anyone would...