T A B L E_T A L K Off the beaten track, and across a narrow bridge: Pine for the hill towns of Italy in Table Talk's Wanderlust area   Find a world of travel books -- new, rare and out-of-print -- at barnesandnoble.com Search by:  Keyword Title Author     R E C E N T L Y This week in travel Wanderlust's select guide to the top travel-related news stories from around the globe (02/12/99) You are what you eat By Tim Cahill The foreword from the book "Man Eating Bugs: The Art and Science of Eating Insects" by Peter Menzel and Faith D'Aluisio (02/11/99) Backstage on "The Beach" By Rolf Potts A backpacker's quest to storm Leonardo DiCaprio's movie set ends in an epiphany that won't play in Peoria (02/10/99) Storming "The Beach" By Rolf Potts A backpacker in search of adventure in Thailand puts the moves on Leonardo DiCaprio (02/09/99) Looking for Abdelati By Tanya Shaffer An unexpected journey into the heart of a family in Casablanca (02/07/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		LOSING IT IN CAMBODIA | PAGE 1, 2, - - - - - - - - - - Red Lips barked out something in Khmer to one of the older women standing around, who then walked over to my chair about as enthusiastically as an inmate stepping into the gas chamber. She gave me the once-over, spread her feet, parked her hands on her hips, frowned, wrinkled her nose and shook her head no. She then retreated, lowered a broom to the floor and threatened a few hair clippings with it. Next up was the youngest-looking stylist, who on a dark night might have been able to pass for 18. Stricken with the giggles, she was slim and dressed like she had to rush off to a Madonna look-alike contest right after work. Red Lips waved Giggles over, chattered rapid-fire, then ran Giggles' fingers through my hair, like clippers. The leaners came off their elbows with horse-laughs. Giggles looked like she might wet herself, then scurried off to a far corner, covering her mouth with her hand like an adolescent at a middle school dance. By now, Curly glanced over, so Red Lips gave him "the look." He nodded OK. As a sort of reconnaissance, I watched Curly in the mirror as he stewed over his customer. He worked with flair and, unlike most Cambodian men, dressed stylishly young-American, as though he worshipped at MTV's alter. Repeatedly, he rolled a spiked cylinder into the black thicket above his customer's forehead, misted it with an atomizer, sprayed it with aerosol that smelled like mosquito repellent, then shaped the glistening mass into a tube the size of a small drainage pipe. Working counterclockwise, he clamped a few wads of hair, allowed them to stiffen, then nimbly removed the clips before pronouncing his customer finished by whipping off her protective apron with a flourish, cracking it like Zorro's whip. Just then, a woman in her 30s walked in, with a half-slumbering, naked-below-the-waist baby riding on her hip. Strikingly attractive and surprisingly tall, she seemed the type who knows what she wants and usually gets it. She was followed by a well-developed girl who wore a 15-year-old version of the woman's face and sported a wide-brimmed hat about the size Eric "Hoss" Cartwright used to wear on "Bonanza." Red Lips sprang into action. After a flurry of Khmer, she escorted the 15-year-old to the chair on my left. When she lifted her hat, enough hair to stuff a mattress cascaded down her back, dancing to a stop about a foot above the floor. That brought the leaners off their elbows again, as the 15-year-old's mother and Red Lips frumped, twirled and folded the teen's hair into imaginary creations. Curly came over with an apron tucked under his arm, smiled politely at the mother, played a little with the girl's hair and finally turned to me. He shook stray clippings off the apron like he was mad at it, then draped it around my neck. It was time to talk length. He grabbed a handful of my hair, lifted it above my ear, then turned up both palms: How short did I want it? There was no sense in overdoing it, prices being what they were. So, I pointed halfway up my ear, drew a line with my finger, then another on the back of my neck, playing it safe a couple inches above my shoulders. About there. Curly nodded. Then, he circled me with measured steps, studying my head, slowly massaging his chin with his thumb and forefinger and occasionally framing me with his hands and tilting the frame at odd angles. I wondered whether he intended to paint my portrait or cut my hair. Finally, he reached for his atomizer, doused me with mist, then combed out the day's snarls. Scissors came next. He worked his fingers feverishly, starting on my right, lightly turning my head left to give him a better angle. That put my eyes squarely on the 15-year-old waiting her turn. About that time, things got confusing. The teen's mother bellowed orders like a drill sergeant, prompting her to lift her blouse, exposing both breasts. I hadn't expected that. I've been around the block a few times, but a semi-mature-looking 15-year-old whipping up her shirt in public is a new one on me. I wasn't sure what to do. Turning away from the exposed breasts seemed to make the most sense, but when I traversed to the right, Curly twisted my head back to the left like a ventriloquist aiming his dummy toward the audience. Curly continued to snip. Everyone seemed bored. I wasn't, but was willing to pretend. Eyes riveted toward the breasts while I wracked my brain for boring thoughts. Usually, that's not difficult, but today boredom was alluding me. My brain was locked. If my cheeks weren't blushing, they were missing an opportunity. Suddenly, from behind, the teen's mother handed the baby to her, and she began nursing the child. Oh, my goodness! So, that was it. The 15-year-old was the mother! By the time I recovered, Curly had worked his way well up my neck, clipping considerably higher than I had intended. I glanced at the floor and saw a pile of light-colored hair. Oh no. "That's enough!" I barked, probably sounding frantic. He backed away abruptly and nodded, then inched forward to finish the left side. The teen's mother shifted her weight from foot to foot and frowned. Curly must have noticed her, so he turned me over to Giggles, who by now had settled down. She stripped off my apron, stretched a towel across my shoulders, and daubed white powder onto the back of my neck, making it sting. My pulse quickened when she repeatedly slapped an old-fashioned straight razor against a strop, then went to work. It was a dry shave, but she worked the blade confidently, slicing first my sideburns, then peeling the stubble off the back of my neck, even scraping fuzz off my ears. She nicked me once near the end and then casually applied some white powder with her finger. In the States, drawing blood might have brought out surgical gloves and launched a frenzy of fist waving, threatened lawsuits and angry denials. But, on a hot day in Cambodia, it brought only a giggle and a grin. I handed over my dollar, although Red Lips couldn't understand the extra 15 cents. "Think of it as a cover charge for the entertainment," I told her, pressing into her palm the 500 riel she had tried to return. She shrugged. I left with my new haircut and headed back to the hotel. On the way I passed another salon, and out of curiosity stepped inside. "How much for a haircut?" I asked a woman up front. She reached for her calculator and tapped out 2,500 riel. About 70 cents. "Thanks," I said, laughing. Red Lips did have a good poker face after all. SALON | Feb. 16, 1999 Morrie Erickson is a freelance writer. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Become a Salon member. Click here.   _________________________________ For more information: _________________________________