Dolma's Tibetan Herbal Beauty Parlor

This open gas burner had many functions, the most important of which was to boil water for rinsing hair or making tea, sometimes in the same pan.
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Dolma's Beauty Parlor was the third place I'd checked in McLeod Ganj to see about getting my hair done.  The goal here was to match the highlights in my hair and dye my roots the same color.  I've been five weeks on the road, and it's been six weeks since my last haircut, so I thought I'd do it here, where it would surely be cheaper (in rupees, not psychic cost) than in Delhi.

The first place I'd checked I found by following signs down two alleys and into the back of what looked like a bombed-out building, where two young Indian men of about 18 were running a beauty parlor.  There were four black barber's chairs, all of them empty, none of which moved or swiveled, and all of which were positioned far too close to the bathroom sink placed in front of each one.  Stuffing spilled out of the tops of these chairs.  Motioning me to sit down, we had a short conversation.  Very short, as it evolved that neither of them spoke English, and, shamefully, I knew even less Tibetan and Hindi.  As one man ran out to find someone to translate, the other shoved a sheet of heavy-duty cardboard in my hands, on which there were taped about fifteen swatches of fake hair, each in a different shade, ranging from pink to black.  I randomly pointed to a shade of hair, growing more and more uneasy as my knees were getting bruised against the sink.  To my great relief, the translator came, there was heated conversation in Hindi, and then the translator turned and very apologetically said they didn't have the color I had picked out, but they would have it in the next day.  "Very well," I said officiously, easing myself out of the chair and hobbling towards the door.  "I'll see if I can find someone else who can do it today."  And then I ran for it.

The main supply site for Dolma's Herbal Beauty Parlor, well stocked with shampoos, styling gels, dyes, conditioners, and other hair products that British Airways won't let you bring on board.
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The second place I looked at was a true barber's shop right on Temple Road, and after a quick squint inside through the large glass window revealed the surfeit of hair on the floor, the dirty windows, and an angry, possibly psychotic, Sweeney Todd hacking away at a client's hair, I declined to take my business there.  I decided to eat lunch instead.  Happily, the woman who runs Jimmy's Italian Kitchen took note of my despondency and ventured "Dolma's Herbal Beauty Shop" as a panacea.

The doorway to the hidden backroom: Dolma's Herbal Beauty Parlor.
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Of the three beauty shops I'd looked at, Dolma's was the only one which didn't have little straight black hairs stuck to the side of the sink.  Actually, though, she didn't really have a functioning sink, so maybe the comparison is unfair.

I knew that going to Dolma's would be a crapshoot.  Again, the intention was that she would dye my roots, plus run a few streaks of that color through my hair in case it didn't match.  Well, instead she dumped a L'Oreal bottle on top of my head and called it a day.  Actually, I loved the whole experience.  Halfway through, after I knew the whole hair thing was going to be a disaster and had just thrown all care to the winds, her older sister wandered in eating peanut brittle and gave us both a piece.  The weirdest thing is that Dolma's younger sister was just in Denver as part of some Tibetan folk dancers for the Dalai Lama's appearance!  None of them have ever been out of India before, and as the older sister said, it's a good thing I'm from Colorado because as far as the rest of the world goes, they have no idea.  Then she and Dolma went off about karma and how we are brought together by fate.  (In the meantime, Dolma was using a brush the size you'd paint a house with and slopping on paint, I mean dye, all over the back of my neck and into my ears and across my forehead.  I just went with it.)  And the importance of living a good life.  I couldn't agree more with that part.

Sarah's good-natured response to learning her hair had been dyed dark brown and that Dolma had done her best to straighten it. Feeling more Tibetan by the hour . . .
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So, then, it was time to rinse.  Dolma put some water on to boil in a soup pot over a portable gas burner, and when it was done, she poured it into a giant yellow basin with a pool of cold water that she kept on the floor, next to her apparently non-functioning sink.  Then she made me stand over the sink, with my knees quivering and my forehead leaning against the stainless steel (I was way too tall for this sink, never mind this posture!).  I stood that way for about ten minutes while she washed my hair with a pitcher the size of a child's toy.  Then added conditioner. Then haplessly tried to rub dye off my neck.  Then, when I was on the verge of complete collapse, she lowered me back into a lawn chair and proceeded to blow dry my hair while pulling down as hard as she could with the comb, to straighten my hair.  She wanted me to look as Tibetan as possible, I think.  So, halfway through that procedure I said I really didn't mind going out with it wet, and I fled from her (after paying).

Another picture of the eponymous Dolma.
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Dolma and her sister couldn't have been nicer, and the shop is the cleanest in McLeod Ganj.  However, at the end of my inadvertent dye job, Dolma mentioned that many of her foreign clients travel with their own dyes and hair products, and maybe next time I should try doing that.  I'm going to.