Feeling at home in a new city requires more than just spending time there. Sure, you might be more comfortable after six months when compared with the first few weeks, but the reality is, places don’t become familiar until you start building out your personal map of them. We’ve all got this kind of map. It’s how we relate to the world—Something of a private compass. When you’re a kid the map might be as small as your neighbourhood, with a favourite park, friend’s house, and school serving as key landmarks. The older you get the larger, and, the way I see it, funner your map becomes. While your office will be somewhere, you’ll also have a favourite restaurant, date spot, gym—Whatever, really. Your map ends up becoming a reflection of who you are: perhaps there’s a painting studio you frequent, a martial arts dojo, a corner in a coffee shop where you can spend hours working, reading, watching the hours roll by… Close to three years into my Saigon journey, I’ve built out a decent map. But as I drove down streets I’ve driven down countless times before, on my way to get a haircut, it hit me. One of the most underappreciated landmarks anyone has on their map is their barbershop.
When I speak about my barbershop, I’m not talking about the shop itself. I’m referring to my barber, a Vietnamese guy in his late-twenties called Phát. He's been cutting my hair ever since I arrived in the summer of 2022. I first met Phát back when I lived in Đa Kao. A minute or so walk from my apartment was a barbershop called Old Fashioned. He worked as one of the hairdressers there: a crew of young, hip twenty-somethings who enjoyed chit-chatting about whatever while they cut our hair, foreign and Vietnamese music always played on the speakers giving the spot more the feel of a local’s hangout than a barbershop. Though someone else cut my hair on my first visit, on my second Phát happened to be available and so I was seated with him. Now, I’m not going to claim that it was some magical hair cutting experience and I left transformed, a new man. It was good, a standard haircut and hair wash lasting a total of around an hour, but from that day forward, I always requested Phát whenever I needed a cut. For starters, he was just a good guy. One of those people you can immediately tell has a golden heart. Besides that, he spoke English well, took his job seriously, and actually seemed to enjoy it. He always called me sir which, though somewhat off putting, I understood was just out of respect. On top of that, while some of the other workers gave off the sense that they had better things to be doing, Phát always looked to be having a nice time. Finally, Phát actually knew how to cut my hair. As a mixed-raced kid growing up in Japan, a country where everyone’s hair is as straight as a ruler, I’d had my share of experiences going to get my haircut and coming out like Frankenstein reborn. I take after the English side of my family with brown, curly hair and evidently Japan’s centuries of isolation resulted in a lack of know-how when it came to chopping the locks off foreign barbarians. Phát knew what he was doing. I was sold.
It didn’t take me long to realise that a good barber is essential. I’d even go so far as saying that for some people, an hour or two at their barbershop is the only real form of relaxation and, though I’m not a fan of the phrase, self-care they get to experience in their day to day lives. Surely I can’t be the only one who finds having my haircut a soothing experience? It brings back memories of being a kid and resting my head on my mum’s lap so she could clean out my ears with a q-tip. You’re getting taken care of. Putting yourself in someone else’s hands and for however long the whole thing lasts you forget about everything other than their caress. So it went with Phát. I’d see him once a month, sometimes talking, other times reading a book while he worked. One day, he told me he’d be moving to a different barbershop. At that point we knew each other well enough that he could ask if I’d come check out his new store. It was a longer walk from home but I said I’d go. He was only at that spot for a couple months before he moved to a different barbershop in the Tân Định area of District 1.
Cow was the name of the new barbershop. He’d joined forces with two others from Old Fashioned to get it up and running. Once again, he asked if I’d be okay with having my haircut over there—By then it didn’t matter, I’d become something of a hairdresser’s groupie and I knew I’d follow Phát around the city if it came to that.
Cow was smaller, another one of those do-it-yourself operations you see so often in Vietnam. For the months that Phát worked there, the place never really seemed to get that busy. I could tell it was a difficult time for him and the other two—They were young, branching off and trying to do their own thing but the price you pay for taking such risks is dealing with the anxiety of never knowing whether you made the right choice. Though Cow provided a quality service and Phát's haircuts were as good as ever, the place never really took off. When I think back to it, what I remember are the boxes of haircut appliances in the corners of the room, the look of boredom on the other barber’s faces when they didn’t have anyone’s hair to cut. Eventually they closed. One of the barbers returned to his hometown, Phát and the other one decided to look for their own spot.
Đôi Bàn Tay’s been open for several months now. It’s got a relaxed charm, with wooden flooring and beige walls, plants here and there as well as Phát's collection of kendama on display. Bossa nova sometimes plays on the speakers, a perfect compliment for an afternoon chatting with Phát. As of writing this in early May, it’s been over a month since the other barber left for a steadier gig. Phát's now taken over operations with his girlfriend. He says he likes having his own spot, and though at the start work came slow, he’s built up a solid list of clients. And even if at some point he moves to a different part of the city, I’m sure we’ll all follow him wherever he goes.
