More than a hairstyle designer: sketching and shearing life

The clouds were tinted in soft shades of rose and tangerine, brushed by the late afternoon sun as it slowly dipped behind the Shanghai skyline, glowing like a quiet flame.

The street Lamundo dwells in

Stepping into Lamundo, a barbershop humming with quiet energy, I was immediately struck by its calm, almost meditative vibe. Through the tall windows, the sycamore trees of Xintiandi cast long, fluttering shadows over the polished cobblestones below. Outside, it was all old-world charm—but inside, the shop was sleek and modern, full of clean lines and warm lighting. It felt like stepping into a different kind of world. I was here to meet Ben, the design director, and I was genuinely excited to hear his story.

Ben greeted me with a polite nod. “Welcome to Lamundo,” he said, his voice soft and smooth, touched with an accent I couldn’t quite place. He looked young—maybe 27—with carefully combed dark hair and a faint scar running just along the line of his left eyebrow. We settled into a quiet corner, the low hum of clippers buzzing gently in the background.

“Thanks for making the time,” I said, noticing how the intricate design on his shirt shimmered under the golden light spilling through the windows.

He smiled slightly, glancing out for a moment before looking back at me. “Of course. It’s a beautiful view at this hour, isn’t it?”

I nodded, following his gaze. “It really is. This place is beautiful too,” I added, glancing around. “But I’m more curious about your story—how you ended up here. Where’s home for you?”

Ben’s posture softened, and a quiet nostalgia passed over his face. “I’m from a small county,” he said. “Life there was... simple. Peaceful, but not a lot of opportunity.” He paused, picking lightly at an invisible spot on his pants. “We didn’t have much, my family. After high school, I knew I had to find a way to live a different kind of life.”

“Was Shanghai the answer?” I asked gently.

He let out a soft sigh. “It kind of had to be. I came here with nothing but a small suitcase and a lot of hope.” A half-smile tugged at his lips, distant and a little tender. “I started out just washing hair at this tiny little salon. The hours were brutal, the pay barely enough to get by. My hands ached every single night. But still, I kept telling myself, ‘This is a start.’ Just a start.”

There was something in the way he said it—so matter-of-fact, but full of quiet resilience—that made me picture him as that younger version of himself: tired, determined, probably scared, but still pressing forward. That kind of perseverance is rare.

“From shampooing to design director—that’s a serious climb,” I said. “What kept you going?”

A real smile finally broke across his face, warm and a little amused. “The dream, I guess. Though not this one, exactly. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a chef. I loved experimenting with flavors, trying new dishes. But there was never time. Never have money for proper training.”

His eyes drifted again to the window, now glowing with the early signs of dusk. “So I set that dream aside, at least for a while. But I still wanted more. A better life. A little comfort—something different from what I knew growing up. That want—that’s what kept me moving.”

There was something so sincere about the way he said it, no dramatics—just truth.

“So... the culinary dream’s still in there somewhere?” I asked.

Ben chuckled, low and easy. “Maybe. Someday, when things settle down. But this—” he gestured around the shop with quiet pride, “—this is what I’m focused on now.”

He sat back slightly, thoughtful. “I learned everything I could. Watched closely. Practiced. Showed up early, stayed late. Everyone around me taught me something, and I made sure I never let that go to waste. And once I set my mind on something—well, I don’t really let go.”

There was a kind of still strength in his voice—nothing flashy, just steady. The kind that builds over years of not giving up. His journey, from the dirt roads of Henan to the polished floors of Lamundo, was a quiet testament to what determination can do.

“Well, it definitely paid off,” I said, smiling. “So what does being a design director actually mean to you? What’s your role here?”

Ben thought for a second, brow gently furrowed. “It’s about creating an experience,” he said slowly. “Not just a haircut. It’s how people feel when they walk in—and how they feel when they walk out. It’s about the vibe, the training, the way the space looks and feels.”

He gestured around—at the tools, the bottles, the natural light pooling across the chairs. “It’s still a form of art. Just a quieter one. It’s about making something beautiful out of the everyday. A different kind of creativity than cooking—but still creative.”

As the last bit of sunlight slipped behind the skyline and the first stars appeared in the soft, fading sky, I found myself thinking about Ben’s story.

There was no grand spotlight in it—just grit, growth, and heart. He stood as proof that even the most modest dreams, if fueled with enough intention, can carry you somewhere remarkable. And as I gathered up my notes, I knew for sure: his story was one worth sharing.