Complete Guide to Blow Job Salons in Saigon
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When they watch Korean dramas, they note the shine and shade of the actresses' locks. They've been known to drive an hour or more to visit their favorite Vietnamese stylists. These days, they cut each other's hair instead of making the trek. The heyday of the hair salon, like so many rituals from my childhood, is a thing of the past.
How I Found Community and Care in Vietnamese Hair Salons
In the background, Paris by Night, a Vietnamese variety show, played. Sometimes the stylists would sing along as they streaked dye into the hair. Usually, someone was reheating a plate of cơm tấm in the back, which made the salon smell heavenly. While waiting for the dye to set, a grandma sat placidly dipping her spring rolls into a plastic container of peanut sauce. These haircuts were a cheap price to pay for an afternoon in the company of women who shared your history—a luxury for my own family, living so far from their homeland. I realized that maybe it wasn't my hair or the haircuts that summoned such emptiness inside of me.
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Map of Blow Job Salons in Saigon
If you belong to the latter group of guys, one of the many places to meet girls in this city are the various blow job salons. If you’ve never been to Vietnam or Asia altogether, you might think that’s a joke – but it’s not. There are really several “hair salons” (hot tocs in Vietnamese) which specialize not in hair cuts but in blow jobs for their customers.
MY GO TO SALON, hands down the best people and service I have ever been too!
I haven't found the same experience anywhere in the Midwestern town where I live now, which has a 6% Asian population, but I haven't stopped looking. And sometimes, the intimacy of the Vietnamese salons of my youth unexpectedly finds me. After you are finished, you pay the money (usually 400k) and leave. If you had to describe the concept of “blow & go” to somebody, that would be the perfect example. Her fingers itched to take the scissors herself, a gesture of stubborn self-reliance I recognized in myself.
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Creating effortless styles
Add bangs, and you might move into the territory of manga schoolgirls in short skirts. Cut your hair into a bob, and you might become relegated to matronly auntie status. One ex-boyfriend would tell—caution—me that he wouldn't find me as attractive with short hair. He said, "I'd feel like you were turning into your mom." For many East Asian American women who find themselves continually brushing against stereotypes, hair matters. Throughout college, graduate school, and shitty first jobs, I spent way more money than I should have on hair.
That afternoon, Mom asked if I would give her a trim, saying she didn't want to pay anyone to take a couple of inches off. I settled her in a chair in the backyard and got out a pair of kitchen shears. But I've rarely been satisfied with my haircuts, despite the prowess of my stylists.
I think it’s because Benny just sounds “safer” or more familiar to most people than some random Vietnamese name. Monday at school, I peeked out shyly behind my curtain of curls (now a little flat and fuzzy due to my inability to style it). I hoped for compliments, any brush of approval over how different I looked.
How I Found Community and Care in Vietnamese Hair Salons
She stood, admiring herself with the hand mirror I brought out. Around us, driven by the gust of wind, hair clippings scattered. They edged past our ankles, into the rocky path near the patio, up around the low-hung birdhouse crammed with twigs, and beyond the fence separating us from the outside world.
Nguyen Phi Khanh Street
I watched women shooing children out from underfoot, sometimes bribing them with individually wrapped fruit gummies. They would trade gossip and recipes, sometimes leaving out a crucial secret ingredient, because generosity knows some bounds. They complained about bosses, celebrated their kids' acceptance into elite colleges, and sometimes bemoaned husbands who did not treat them as the queens they were. When discussing their troubles, they hissed, "This would never happen in Vietnam."
The women in the salon gushed over me. "She looks like Mariah Carey!" they said. "So adult," my mom told me, almost wistfully, cupping the ends of my hair with her palm. Like other People of Color, many Vietnamese women have a complicated relationship with hair. Joyful and exuberant at times, yet also edged with trauma. The darkness of East Asian hair is treated as a metaphor for inscrutability, and in some cases, for seduction—picture a femme fatale striding across a room in a crimson dress. It's a look that, for some, has become a shorthand for Orientalism.
My mind jogged back to the cacophony of voices, the way all my senses lit on entering. What I felt—what the women in my family felt—when we opened those salon doors was hope. They were investing in themselves for a few hours, away from the demands of jobs, childrearing, and running households crowded with generations.
The chemicals stung my scalp, and the heat of the overhead lamp meant for setting the curls felt like it was baking me alive. And yet, I stayed put and continued to page through my magazines. Two hours later, my hair was dried and sprayed within an inch of its life, reeking of chemicals. It was also four inches shorter due to the spring of the curl.
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