indivi-dualism

Today I woke up, I ate, and I went to work. At work I worked. While there I bemoaned my hirsute appearance, and I emphatically determined to get a haircut. (Note: this last sentence was written solely to piss off scopejuice.)

I entered the barbershop ill-equipped to explain to the person who would cut my hair what exactly I wanted my hair to look like. All I had with me was the ability to say, "Don't cut it too short, please," in Korean. Fortunately for me, on the wall of the barbershop were a couple of pictures of various hairstyles. I pointed at one, and added, "Neo-mu jjalp-kke kkak-jji ma-se-yo." This worked like gangbusters. I couldn't have hoped for a better haircut if I'd done it myself, which is something I've done quite often in the past.

This brings me to the topic of this post, which, as you may have guessed, is individualism. While one could say that the intent of the pictures of hairstyles on the wall were for the few foreigners in my area, I noticed that the photos pretty well encapsulated every Korean that I've seen since I got here. Everyone has one of five hairstyles, or is old and bald. This is especially noticeable with school-aged girls, who are required to have the same hairstyle: shoulder length hair with bangs above the eyes.

This normality extends beyond personal apperances. Tonight, not keen on spending another night alone in my apartment watching another replay of Park Ji Sung's greatest goals, I decided instead to go to a bar, albeit alone, to read a book and drink some beer and pass the time away. I walked to my usual bar, but found it closed. A sign on the door explained why it was closed, but only to those who can both read and understand Hangul.

I wandered around for a bit, searching for a bar that looked peaceful enough to drink alone in and read a book. I found one, called Tokyu (not Tokyo, Tokyu) House, and settled in. It was a quaint little place, a dive-bar, but unfortunately it shunned its uniqueness by insisting on pouring the same loud Korean pop music into the room that every bar here does. It could have differentiated itself, but instead insisted on being a minituarized imitation of everything else, even though its occupants consisted only of two middle-aged Korean couples, a joyously lonesome Korean man in the corner, and me.

Sometimes, in some classes, we'll play a game in which the students have to say a noun that starts with the letter that the previous noun ended with (zoo leads to octopus which leads to snake which leads to elephant which leads to television and so on and so on and so on and so it goes). This game is aimed at reinforcing vocabulary and initiating independent thought. However, the more vocal kids insist on screaming out appropriate words even when it's not their turn. When they do, the kid who's turn it is does not reject the suggestion of their peer's, but simply repeats the word that the other student proffered.

In America the individual is a cherished notion. Everyone can establish their uniqueness and individuality via their appearance or opinions or the background color of their myspace page. In Korea, things are more communal. Hell, every car I've seen here has been black or white. Things are either this, or they are that. Nothing is threatening, it is all familiar, it is all Korean. The communist in me detects this, woefully identifies the fascism in it, and laughs at madness of it all.