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		--------------- GETTING A HAIRCUT IN BATTAMBANG|--------------- IS A GOOD DEAL -- ESPECIALLY IF YOU LIKE|--------------- GETTING MORE THAN YOU BARGAINED FOR.|--------------- BY MORRIE ERICKSON There must be a dozen reasons an American shouldn't get a haircut in Cambodia, but on a blazing afternoon with sweat pouring off me like the Johnstown flood and my traveler's growth beginning to look like Trigger's mane, I couldn't come up with even one. So when I came across the Bangkok Hair Do Salon on one of the main drags in Battambang, Cambodia's second largest city, I screwed up my courage and headed toward the door. First, though, I had to pick my way through traffic, dodging bell-dinging bicycles, buzzer-bleating motorcycles and klaxon-blasting trucks. After a week in Cambodia, I had heard every type of horn known to humanity, except the kind used in orchestras. Once safely inside the shop, which was no larger than a one-car garage, I saw a strange scene: three women being fussed over by two female stylists on platform shoes wielding stainless steel scissors and pink combs, and a man with curly hair waving a blow dryer that looked like something out of "Star Wars." Looking somewhere between bored and hypnotized, five other women propped themselves up on their elbows as they stood around apparently waiting for customers of their own. Suddenly, as if choreographed by an unseen director, the clipping stopped, Curly's blow dryer screamed hot air toward the ceiling, and all 11 heads swiveled in my direction, gaping as though Cambodia's King Sihanouk had just walked in wearing knickers. "How much for a haircut?" I asked in English to no one in particular, my eyes finally settling on the first leaner to move, her puffed-up lips smeared with lipstick red as fire. The woman, Red Lips, pressed her palms against the front counter, where goods ranging from toothpaste to earrings to motor oil were on display, and said something I didn't understand in her native Khmer. I fished in my pocket for some riel -- the depressed Cambodian currency that hovered somewhere around 3,500 riel to one U.S. dollar -- showed Red Lips a few bills, ran two fingers through my hair impersonating scissors and shrugged my shoulders. She smiled, then tapped the keys of a calculator and turned it toward me. It read 3,000. She had to be joking. Three thousand riel is about 85 cents. "Riel," I said, just to make sure, pointing at the calculator. I didn't have $3,000 on me. She nodded. In Southeast Asia, every price is negotiated. It's a part of daily life. You bargain for breakfast in the morning and for a ride across town in the afternoon. You wrangle with the boys selling newspapers on the corner, receptionists when booking a hotel, merchants when buying sarongs in the market. Prices are always up for grabs. But this time, I decided not to haggle. "OK," I said. For all I knew, the going rate was a quarter. But, if it was, her poker face was a good one. Whatever money the Bangkok Hair Do Salon was making, they hadn't put any of it in padded seats that can change height and spin around like those used by stylists and barbers in the States. Instead, I squirmed into a rock-hard plastic chair, similar to the ones on my deck back home. Both rows of customer chairs faced wall-to-wall mirrors, below which stood aerosol canisters, jars of creams and powders, bottles of colored liquids and an assortment of hair-cutting instruments, all on narrow shelves that looked like they hadn't been dusted since Nixon's first term. Above the mirrors, styling choices were depicted in color posters. All the models were Asian women with long black hair coiled atop their heads in unusual configurations, then knotted here and there with flashy bows and ribbons. Maybe men weren't supposed to come in here. N E X T+P A G E | A parade of prospective hair-cutters - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Become a Salon member. Click here.   _________________________________ For more information: _________________________________