I had this wee ingrown hair in my armpit that I noticed about a month ago. It didn't really hurt, and I wasn't too worried about, though I did try to squeeze it out and even subjected my boyfriend, tweezers in hand, to have a go at removing the little annoying hair. Still, after reading a bit on that new thing we call the Internet, I learned that ingrown hairs really don't get better on their own. Either they always stay the same or they get infected, worsen, and cause heaps of problems. So in my proactive, 'I don't want heaps of problems later' manner, I used one of my mornings off work to get the little curly fella checked out.
Most doctors in Korea speak English decently (though I have been told by an acupuncturist that my neck pain is 'cereal'). For this particular affliction, however, I wanted to clearly explain my problem and ensure he knew what to do for ingrown hairs. Furthermore, if he was sick that day of med-school where they explained ingrown hair procedure, I knew of a great website we could read together (in English) that outlined, what seemed to me, a very easy method of exfoliating, tweezering and yanking to rid my armpit of her rebel-hair woe!
Unaware of skin doctors capable of speaking this advanced level of English, I headed toward the foreigner clinic inside a hospital not too far from my house. When I arrived for my very first visit to this English-welcoming clinic, I was disappointed to find that the nurse couldn't say much past, "Your name?" and "Your ID card?" Though she did try her best, and continued to repeat "Dok-tah la-bol-la-tol-li," which obviously means that the doctor is in the laboratory, though I was having troubles discerning this obvious statement as I sat in front of her, slowing duplicating her constant repetition. "Dok-tah la-bol-la-lol-li?" I said. Now, it was my turn to sound stupid as I explained in my poorly spoken, pigeon Korean, that I was sorry, but I didn't know what she was saying. She smiled, picked up the phone, dialed a number, huffed a bit, set the phone down, and asked me, in Korean, to wait.
40 minutes later, she handed me the phone.
"Hello?" I asked.
"Hi. I am the doctor."
I explained everything about my renegade armpit hair. And he explained everything about 'Dok-tah la-bol-la-lol-li.' He said, "Ok, well I am in the laboratory all day today, and will not come to the foreigner clinic. So I suggest you go see a skin doctor at another smaller clinic."
"Rightio, Doc, but I came here because I wanted to communicate clearly in English."
"Yes, well I suggest you go to a skin doctor in another clinic, who speaks English." explained doctor obvious!
"Sure, well do you know of any English-speaking Skin Doctors?" I asked.
"Ummmmmmm no. Do you read Korean?"
"Yes, but how will I find a skincare clinic with a doctor who speaks English?"
"Ummmmmm, I suggest that once you find a clinic, go inside and ask the doctor."
I laughed out of frustration and at my obtuseness, told him I could figure things out on my own, and hung up with the ever-so-helpful Dr. Obvious. I left the hospital angry, and marched back toward my house, where I remembered seeing a building full of different specialized clinics. My cell phone's Korean/English dictionary translates quite a bit better from Korean to English, so as I stood in front of the 5 story building, I typed in the names of each of the clinics. Floor 5 was a skincare clinic. Golden. Now to ask the question of English!
Luckily enough, on my very first 'find an English speaking Skincare Doctor' attempt, the doctor spoke English, as did one of his nurses. So he set me up with some minor laser surgery, and fried that rebel curly-hair out of her cyst-like home! During the extremely brief procedure, a nurse stood above me with a hose to suck out the smell of burning flesh. However, the hose didn't quite reach to my armpit, so she placed it next to my nose, ensuring that neither the doctor nor the nurse could capture the alluring whiff of my blazing armpit, but failing to prevent the smell from wafting up my nose! Fortunately, I endured only moments of the quesying odor, as laser-burning small ingrown-hair cysts takes merely moments.
Relieved that I no longer had to breath in my own burning flesh, I redressed, and made my way to the check-out counter, where I paid my whopping $12 bill. Realizing, that despite the frustrating conversation with Dr. Obvious, searching for an English-speaking doctor on my own, and inhaling my own singeing flesh, the morning's events were far more pleasurable than they could have been back home. All that hassle is worth a mere $12 bill. With seriously flawed healthcare 'reform' bills back home, I'm happy to be in government-funded healthcare-for-all (even for English teachers!), Korea.
