I’ve complained before about the problems I encounter in an appearance-based culture like Korea, but I’ll concede one point: I’ve never had a bad haircut. This despite my complete inability to communicate effectively — I know how to say “short,” and “more short” in very broken Korean.
All I know is the lady who does my hair is part artist, part machine. With quick, fluid movements, she masterfully manipulates the scissors and comb as though they were fused to her hands at birth (maybe?).
No hair is out of place or overlooked. Deviant tufts, rogue hairs and rebellious cowlicks are mowed down where they stand. Insurrection will not be tolerated.
I could find an English-speaking hairdresser, but I prefer to just go to the one on the ground floor of my apartment building. Call it a mix of laziness and desire to buy local.