Now this phrase is a very dramatic phrase. Maybe something you would say to the doctor, perhaps before a lifesaving operation……I'm not going to have a lifesaving operation; I'm going to the hairdresser!
I'm going to a hairdresser who doesn't speak English, he speaks Italian and I speak English, I don't speak Italian ( not yet anyway). I had made the appointment spontaneously one afternoon with a salon in town that was recommended by a good friend. When I had made the appointment all I could manage to babble out was " tagliare, colore, Questa settimana? Giovedi? Alla dieci? Si perfetto, Civediamo giovedi!" Which translates exactly to "Cut, colour, this week? Thursday? 10.00am? yes perfect, see you Thursday". As I left the salon I was a little chuffed I did that all by myself and then a little baffled as to how I'm going to tell the hairdresser what I need and want done with my curly locks. In my experience not many (any) hairdressers (except my aunty strawb…'hair with flair') know how to deal with curly hair and I normally end up coming out looking like an electrocuted poodle. And this is after in English, at length I have detailed my wants, needs, dislikes and fears. My fear of the hairdresser can be compared to a bad fear of flying. I normally sit, shaking, sweating and hyperventilating at every bit of movement.
As I sat in the chair I felt weirdly calm. I thought this complete lack of communication would freak me out but it had the opposite effect. I felt more excited than anything, excited and a bit perplexed as to why I put myself in this position in the first place, but mostly excited. Like when your team is kicking the deciding goal after the siren and your sweaty, sickly nervously excited. It could go either way, it could go horribly wrong and he could miss or it could all go beautifully right, but it's not up to you. You can't kick the ball, your life, your happiness is in someone else's hands.
So I sit there and let the games begin. I watch the cute little guy fan colour swatches of hair across my forehead as if he were competing in a Japanese 'fan opening' competition. With a colour decided the cute little blonde assistant begins to brush in the colour…my eyes go a bit wide when I realise I forgot to try and inform them I wanted 'foils' and not a whole full colour. Oh well too late now…how exciting!
This whole language barrier thing works rather to your advantage when at the hair dresser. You don't have to obligingly answer the plethora of scripted questions from the very uninterested hairdresser " So are you going out tonight? Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? Does he have any friends? What do you do for work? …" I always feel like saying 'Please, just concentrate on my hair, that's what I'm here for". Today I sit in silence and feel good that she's just concentrating on my hair. I calmly sit in silence, looking at the pretty pictures in magazines and I think to myself 'Whatever happens today , I will just have to accept it. Good or bad, although im hoping to walk out looking like an Italian movie star. Two years ago I got a really shocking hair cut just before I left for my first Italian holiday. I erupted like an of the Richter scale earthquake. The tremors and aftershocks carried on for the whole holiday with violent eruptions of swear words and hate for "that fucking BITCH…I cant believe what she did to me…".. I acted like she had cut of my left arm. Even though I do feel like my hair is a precious extension of me, my precious hair grew back rather quickly. I wasted a lot of precious energy and time that holiday obsessing over my hair and regret that. But with regrets come lessons to learn.
Today it's a 50/50…..electrocuted poodle or Italian film star. 'I will be happy whatever happens' I tell myself VERY sternly. I have no-one to blame. The cute little hairdresser was asked by me in broken Italian to "Just do what you think needs doing". I do deserve the 'bravery award 2010' for that one! And as for me, past regrets have taught me a lot. Why should I only be happy if my haircut turns out good? I should be happy either way, good or bad! Because my happiness is more important than my hair…yes I just said that!
The colour is washed out and I'm seated in front of the mirror for the elusive 'cut'. My eyes bawk as I notice a lovely orange tinge in my hair. I'm trying to think how I would try and say 'I need a toner, you need to fix this, I wanted blonde not orange' but I don't have a clue how to say that so instead I just try to think of all the famous film stars with orange hair, change IS GOOD… 'this is still good' it try to convince myself. It's time for the cut and I try to motion with my hands and slowly say "I WANT L-A-Y-E-R-S"…and then realise no matter how slow I say it , it won't translate. So I smile, sit back and let the games continue.
The cute little hairdresser guy is standing behind me, scissors poised. I notice he has a ridiculously similar resemblance to 'Edward Scissor Hands'. I have to hold in and 'out-loud' laugh as flashes from the film run through my mind of 'Edward Scissor Hands' frantically hacking at hedge bushes and heads of hair….and HES OFF, he flicks his scissors before he takes the first cut as if he were Zoro. He picks up a big chunk of my hair from the crown of my head…and ITS OFF. I can't believe my eyes. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I know for a fact what he just did is an unfixable cardinal sin for cutting curly hair! I decide to laugh, because what else can I do, and anyway this could all be worth it just watching him swinging his scissors around my head like Zoro. Only in Italy can someone look so good while cutting my hair so bad.
The cut is done and my hair is dry. I'm in front of the mirror again being pampered like a prize winning poodle which is only fitting because that's just what I look like. A lovely fluffy tuft on top of my head and then a longer layer that looks like my cute fluffy poodle ears. All with, shall we say, an 'apricot' tinge. So there it was, I had to give him some credit because I got more than what I was expecting. Instead of 'electrocuted poodle' I got 'prize winning pampered poodle'….and that's got to be worth something!
I paid my money and said a polite "Grazie" and then once outside I burst out laughing. At that moment I half expected a bounding 'pity-party' to jump out from around a corner or jump down from a window above, tackle me to the floor and pin me to the ground, slap me in the face and say "STOP SMILING, LOOK AT WHAT HE DID TO YOUR HAIR, WE SHOULD BE SO UPSET AND ANGRY RIGHT NOW"…but there was no 'pity-party', only laughter. I knew my hair would grow out, I knew being upset about this would not fix anything and I knew that next time I would go to a different hairdresser with a friend who speaks English & Italian to translate for me. I thought of something my nanna Rusty would say, something she says about everything thing that could possibly be tragic from a bad haircut to a diagnosis of cancer "Oh well, at least you don't have dandruff" she says! And I laughed all the way home with MY HAPPINESS FIRMLY IN MY HANDS…
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