La Peluquería

Last week, the vanity in me was making fun of my hair more than usual. It had its reasons. I have not had a haircut since December, and trying to tame my hair with a flat iron every day only facilitates more end-splitting and breakage. No matter what I do, my hair is a tangled, limp mess within fifteen minutes of leaving the house each morning. Or so Vanity was telling me. To make Vanity pipe down, I caved and scheduled a hair appointment at my señora’s salon two blocks away. Last time she came home from the salon she looked great, and the salon’s website looked very professional. I figured that was as sure as I could get, judging by appearances.

Accordingly, Vanity comes with Fear. I am very particular about who cuts my hair, and I am fortunate enough to have not one but two hairstylists who exceed expectations with each visit I make to their salons. They are so good at their jobs that all I need to do is sit in the chair and tell them not to cut too much off, and they somehow give me something new but perfectly to my taste every time. (And now my plug for these two ladies: If you stop by Embellish in Bayport, Minnesota, ask for Mandy. If you are in Madison, Jenny will take good care of you at Anaala.) I was afraid of a new pair of hands wielding scissors, fearing that they would be poised to chop off all of the hair I have managed to finally grow out.

To alleviate some of this fear, I looked up all of the necessary words for layers, no bangs, split ends, etc. I do not know if I was afraid I would be bald by the end or what, but everything turned out just fine. In the end, it is just hair. It does, begrudgingly, grow back. Once I was in the salon, I just went with the flow and enjoyed feeling fabulous this afternoon.

I like my haircut, but the experience was certainly different from what I am used to back home. Per the hair care clause in my contract with my parents for attending Madison (an entirely different story which I can tell you some other time if you like), I get to be spoiled and enjoy Aveda salons. My hairdressers pay me 100% of their attention and are very amiable. We usually end up chatting the majority of the time, and they respond to everything I say, interesting or not.

Today no one at the peluquería was in a conversational mood, which either had to do with my obvious trouble in understanding them or is a de facto condition in Spanish salons. Upon arriving they kindly stored my bag for me and then proceeded to wrap me in a gauzy white robe. At the shampoo station, a good amount of water ended up in my ears, some even running down my neck. That’s definitely a no-no back home. After the shampooing I sat in the normal chair, described what I wanted, and my hairdresser went to town. She was seriously fast! Scissors and hair were flying, and she finished in one third of the usual time it takes to cut my hair. I was a bit stunned but certainly impressed. During all of this, two girls who looked to be training stood behind my chair to observe the process, all of which I saw in the mirror. Only one other woman was in the salon, so to have so much attention concentrated around my chair was a bit uncomfortable. I very intently studied my black cape.

While the hairdresser started to dry and style my hair, one of the girls brought over two fashion magazines for me to read. I started flipping through the Spanish Vogue. It isn’t my usual reading choice, but I like to look at the fashion spreads and think about how ridiculous it would be if I saw people on the street actually wearing such crazy clothing. I ended up finding a tribute to Spanish dancer Antonio Gades, written by his friend Carlos Saura who directed the flamenco version of “Bodas de Sangre” which featured Gades. I just watched that movie in class last week. Who knew I would find something relevant to my studies in Spanish Vogue?

During the whole cutting and styling process, a cup of hot chocolate they had brought me was sitting in front of me just out of reach. Now, it isn’t easy to drink hot chocolate while someone is cutting your hair, especially if you take your hot chocolate sans hair strands. Once my hairdresser was done, she looked at my cup of hot chocolate and asked if I was going to drink it. I tried to say that I was ready to go, but she insisted that I relax, finish my hot chocolate, and read more of the magazine. I did as I was told, but I think I did so too quickly. When I went up to pay, I thanked my hairdresser once again for doing a great job, especially because I had been so nervous beforehand.

I am glad that I got this process over with. It's interesting to be able to observe cultural differences even in such small sectors as salon services. Plus, my hair hasn't had this much volume in months! Am I sitting out in public right now in order to show off a little bit? You bet I am. 

Before

After