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The sun, hanging in the dry winter Korean sky, shone through my apartment window and onto the dustpan heaped with strands of my long yellow hair.

For months I had been sweeping drifts of my fallen hair off the apartment floor. I looked forlornly at the dustpan. All my life, my friends and family had defined me by this long, blond hair; now it was brassy, ragged-ended and vanishing at a steady rate.

I had been losing my hair for 10 months now. It had started two months into my job teaching ESL and I thought it was a result of stress, the harsh, undrinkable local water and a diet that leaned heavily on rice and instant coffee. Day after day, strand by strand, my hair deserted my scalp and I was reminded that I was living in a foreign country where most things, like my hair loss, occurred for unknown reasons and were beyond my control.

I was working for a year in Yangsan, a small South Korean town. I had fallen into a strange, isolated life — planning lessons and learning how to be a teacher was all I could handle. After struggling to amuse classrooms full of bored, rowdy 12-year-olds, I was too exhausted and unmotivated to learn the language that would allow me to take part in the day-to-day Korean life around me.

When I did try to speak Korean, it was difficult for all involved and I was seldom understood. In South Korea, you can only dispose of garbage when it is in a special type of bag. The bags are kept behind the counter at corner stores and you have to ask for them by name. One day at the local corner store, I spent 20 minutes with my phrase book trying different combinations on the two good-natured cashiers. Did I want a fabric shopping bag? Ziploc bags? A backpack? They patiently pointed out each one.

I finally resorted to walking across the street, picking up a full bag of garbage and displaying it to the ladies behind the counter. What should have been a 20-second transaction was an excruciating exchange full of mangled language, awkward social interaction and bad acting. After that, I resolved to avoid speaking Korean if I could.

While I wasn't participating in the world around me, my blond but rapidly vanishing hair drew attention to me. When I wore a ponytail, young guys on street corners snickered and whispered "Sharapova" as I passed, even though a yellow ponytail is the only thing the tennis player and I have in common.

One night at dusk I crossed the bridge to the older side of town. Gradually, the small houses fell away and I was in open countryside. The road was fenced by barbed wire on either side.

I passed what looked like a small toll booth. From behind me someone yelled, "Stop!" Two young soldiers, rifles slung over their shoulders, were hurrying to catch up to me. The taller one held back while the shorter one started interrogating me in Korean. I stood silent, only understanding his hostile tone. His chest an inch from mine, he took a lock of my hair between his fingers and started rubbing it. His speech took on a quieter tone.

I turned and quickly walked back to Yangsan, not looking back and not stopping when he called after me.

The next day, I asked my students about the area I had been walking in. They told me it was used for military weapons testing and I shouldn't walk there after dark. Soon there would be no hair left for strange men to grab at, I reflected.

Late one night while watching too much TV, I saw an infomercial for what looked like a giant salt shaker full of black metal filings. A businessman shook the container over his bald spot and the black substance clung to his existing hair strands while turning his bare scalp black. I wondered if this product came in yellow.

I tried changing my diet, taking vitamins, massaging my scalp and washing my hair with bottled water. Nothing worked. I decided a haircut was the only answer. At least my hair wouldn't look so bad.

But how could I get a haircut without speaking Korean? First, I had to find a salon. I searched online and finally found English directions for a hairdresser in my area.

Armed with a Korean phrase book, I navigated streets and back alleys until I found the shop. All the stress of the past 12 months welled up in me as I stammered out the phrase I hoped would get me into the hairdresser's chair. The young man behind the counter looked at me a moment and said, "Don't worry, I speak English. I trained to be a hairdresser in London."

Soon-jin, the hairdresser, swiftly chopped off my long ragged ponytail, let it drop to the floor and kicked it aside. He lathered my head in warm water and shampoo that smelled like cinnamon and massaged my ears. As he trimmed my bangs, I realized this was the first time someone had touched my face in a year.

He put in highlights, cut away all the ragged, unhealthy hair and shaped what remained into a smooth, gleaming golden bob — the best haircut I have ever received.

Leah Giesbrecht lives in Vancouver.