So, you know how sometimes you just... walk into a place expecting one thing and come out kinda dazed, wondering what just happened? That was me — last fall, in a quiet neighborhood somewhere in Seoul. I wasn’t looking for anything dramatic. I just needed a trim. Maybe clean up the sides a bit, shape the top — keep it low-maintenance, travel-friendly.

But somehow, I ended up in a chair, nodding nervously at a stylist who spoke almost no English, while I — in my flawed wisdom — decided to just go with it. I mean, how bad could it be?

Right?

Let me back up a second.

I’d been on the road for a few weeks by then. My hair had started doing this awkward wave thing that made me look like a character from a retro anime — not in a good way. I figured a local haircut might be a fun cultural experience. Or at least... efficient. I’d read that Asian salons, especially in big cities, are fast, affordable, and usually deliver clean results.

I guess I underestimated the part where “communication” plays a role.

I stepped into this small, spotless salon tucked between a noodle shop and what I think was a florist — although, to be fair, it could’ve just been a flower-scented laundromat. The stylist — cheerful, maybe mid-30s, neon clips in her apron — greeted me with a smile and a gesture to the chair. No wait. That was nice.

She held up a laminated style book and flipped to a page with some K-pop idol who looked like he hadn’t eaten carbs in a decade. I panicked, pointed vaguely to a more conservative option, and said something like, “Shorter? But not too short?” She nodded. Or I think she nodded. Hard to say, really. It might’ve been just her looking at the back of my head and visualizing disaster.

The cape went on. Scissors came out. And then... silence.

There’s a weird vulnerability about haircuts, you know? You’re trapped — literally caped in, arms hidden, neck slightly tilted in submission. And when you’re in a foreign country, not understanding a word, those twenty minutes feel like an hour. Or two.

She started snipping fast. Like, really fast. At one point, I swear I heard the buzz of clippers before I saw them — and by then, it was too late. The sides? Gone. Faded down to near skin. The top? Still intact, but now styled into this slick, forward-facing cut with sharp lines and clean edges.

It was... honestly? Not bad. Just nothing like what I thought I asked for.

I sat there, blinking at the mirror like someone who woke up with a new face. I looked sharper, sure. A little edgier. Definitely more "Asian haircut" than I’d ever worn before. Think Korean drama meets minimal-effort travel blogger. I didn’t hate it. I just wasn’t prepared to like it.

A few thoughts swirled around: Will I be able to recreate this look on my own? (No.) Do I now need to buy product? (Yes.) Was this a sign to change my style altogether? (Still undecided.)

And here’s the weird part — when I walked out, I got compliments. Strangers smiled. A guy at a street food cart gave me extra tteokbokki. Coincidence? Maybe. But there was something oddly liberating about letting go of control and just letting someone else decide how I looked — even if it was mildly terrifying in the moment.

Would I do it again?

Honestly... yeah. Probably. Though I might learn a few phrases next time. Or bring a printed photo. Or just embrace the chaos again. There’s something about the unpredictability of it all that kind of sticks with you. Like a souvenir, except instead of a fridge magnet, it’s your face.

So if you ever find yourself abroad, feeling brave — or maybe just tired of your overgrown travel hair — find a chair. Let someone else take the reins. Worst case? You'll have a story. Best case? A surprisingly stylish asian haircut that makes you feel like a slightly different version of yourself. Maybe one who buys hair wax now. Who knows?

Either way, you won’t forget it.