I'm never that keen to get my hair cut. I let it get to the point where I can barely stand it, and then make the trip to get it done.

With our wedding coming up fast, Ellen decided that it couldn't wait any longer, and I had to get it cut immediately. She made an appointment, and we were going, and that was the end of the discussion.

We caught the bus out to her parents' apartment, and after a cup of tea, she led me around the corner to a small portable building. This, it soon became apparent, was the hairdresser's salon.

In Australia, hair salons are generally large and well lit, with huge mirrors covering most of the walls. There's a proliferation of sinks for washing hair, and drying machines lie in wait to gently set things in place.

This salon was a chair, a small mirror, and plastic basin in the corner. Water came from a giant plastic barrel by the door, and was heated in vacuum flasks with an immersion heater. It didn't exactly fill me with confidence, but it was too late.

Luckily for me, the woman who ran the place definitely knew what she was doing. After she discussed with Ellen how I wanted my hair cut, she was off, deftly wielding her scissors over my scalp. Occasionally, she stopped to spray my hair with water, or to take a few sips of tea.

As she snipped and combed, she kept up a running conversation with the other customers, who came in and were waiting on a low bench along the back wall. I'm fairly sure that she doesn't have many foreign clients, and word must have passed around that I was getting my hair done, as soon quite a crowd had gathered to watch her work. Small children going past stopped and pressed their faces to the window, before their mothers tugged them away.

I have very fine, blonde hair, something the hairdresser wasn't used to. At one point she said something to Ellen, who told me: "She says your hair is harder to cut than a cat's!" - which made me wonder how she knew that. Had she been practicing on unsuspecting felines? Not that I was worried by that, the local cats seemed to be particularly well groomed.

Finally, she stopped, put down the scissors, and led me over to the basin, where she began to wash my hair with water that felt like she'd been keeping ice cubes in it. Being unable to complain in Chinese, I stoically put up with the cold rinse, while my ears turned blue.

Suddenly, the hairdresser stopped short, and said something to Ellen, who translated it to me. "You must be very strong, she forgot to put any hot water in! Why didn't you say anything to her?"

"I didn't know what to say!"

I was led back to the chair, and while my hair was being dried, I began to look forward to going home and having a nice cup of tea - or at least something warming.

"Do you like it? Your haircut?" Ellen asked.

"Yes, it's very good. Tell her she's done a good job. How much do I owe her?"

Six yuan ($0.87) for almost an hour's work is a very good price for a haircut. That's about 5 percent of what I'd normally pay in Adelaide.

At that price, I think I'll be going back to that unsophisticated salon for my next "do" - but only if the hairdresser remembers to heat up the water this time.