I met Boy for the first time at Taman Budaya Cultural Centre in Yogyakarta. When I think about it now, the circumstances were cheerless. A mutual friend of ours had recently made a suicide attempt and needed to talk. He was staying with Boy, who contacted me to help. Perhaps as a foreigner, perhaps as a woman, or perhaps just as another human, he thought I could offer an alternative perspective. Over spicy chicken soup and sweet coffee, the three of us talked about depression.
It may seem flippant, but we also talked about hair.
Boy had great hair. It had been almost a year since mine was even trimmed. I have never liked hairdressers much. The mirrors and magazines make me uncomfortable and I am reluctant to pay a lot of money for someone to scold me for swimming in chlorine and for not using 'product' and a blow dryer. I usually end up sitting on a friend's kitchen chair with a towel over my shoulders. The result is basic straight edging to my boring brown waves, and the occasional fringe, which I usually coax into exile over the following months with the assistance of bobby pins.
Boy is enrolled in ceramics at the Fine Art Institute of Indonesia. He is not really that interested in clay, but when he got accepted to art school, he had to choose something. He considered 'Fashion and Textiles' but as he explains, the course is mostly about appropriating batik and traditional weaving for the tourist market. Boy speaks perfect American English that he learned from MTV. Between studying and working as an assistant to a Dutch artist, he does hair. Every Thursday at Kedai Kebun , a Yogya art space, he sets up a salon in the garden and cuts and styles the hair of whoever shows up. He has no business cards, no schedule, and no price list. His clients are people he meets hanging out, conversing, networking.
I made a date with Boy for the next Thursday.
I had to cancel that appointment as I was in Jakarta to join the punk protests over George Bush's visit. The protest was an initiative from Marjinal , a diligent group of anarchists that has been agitating with their music and art in the outskirts of Jakarta for almost ten years.
Although it was hot and dusty, I relished in being able to walk in the middle of the usually unmanageable Jakarta streets. Between bloated rat carcasses floating in the sewers and the dense black soot of pollution that cakes my face, joy is possible. Banners, puppets, signs and chants voiced solidarity for farmers and workers, concerns about the IMF, aid dependency, corruption in the military and government, and workers' rights. People going about their day stopped and took notice. Drink sellers attached our placards to their mobile stalls. And even in the notorious traffic jams of Jakarta, made marginally worse by our stunt, drivers honked their horns in time with the chants, 'Go to HELL with your AID!'
I sent Boy an apologetic text message. 'Ngak apa apa ,' he replied 'no worries' . . . 'I have eleven people to transform today.' As word was spreading, his makeshift salon was getting busier. Later that day, as I relaxed with Marjinal at their home cum silk-screening business cum tattoo studio cum gallery, Boy messaged me again. 'Thanks for marching for us,' he said. 'I will have to give you a 'protester' haircut now.' I looked around at my friends' eccentric hairdos. Mike had a defiant mohawk to show off the large tattoo of a fish above his ear. Bob was bald except for a crop of thick dreadlocks coming out the top of his head. 'Ok, but gentle protester' I texted back.
By the time I met Boy again, I was packing my house up in Yogya and preparing to meet my boyfriend after a long stint of separation. Boy and I chatted as he sat me down under the strelitzia and started working into my scraggly locks.
'You have a lot on your mind,' he laughed. 'Perfect time for a new look.' In Java,' he explained, 'long hair is a sign of patience. You have been patient enough. Your new hair is good for dancing, rolling around, and jumping up and down.'
It is the best haircut I have ever had. It is long at the back but light, which is good in the tropical heat. It is parted on the side, in a new way, and it seems to sweep itself over my forehead down to my right ear, without much discipline. It is long and short, messy and neat, curly and straight. I gave Boy an art theory book and a fashion design magazine in exchange for the new look. He calls it 'academic rock' and says it will last about two and a half months.
Our friend also has a new haircut and is seeing a counselor. He says he is doing much better.
pic by the charming Sam Icklow