I gave Greg a haircut last week.
And it reminded me why I’ve been so frustrated with my hair lately… My last haircut was in Utah, two weeks after London was born.
He’s now SEVEN months old.
It was time… far past time actually, to face up to another fear: a haircut, in a foreign language.
***
It took a solid week to talk myself into it.
THE DAY arrived.
I walked toward the salon. Google Translate in hand. Repeating over and over in my mind: “Você tem tempo para cortar o cabelo? Eu não tenho um compromisso…”
You can do this.
I remind myself that regardless of what my hair looks like afterward, as long as there’s less of it, today will be a win. And the relief will be, well, a relief.
Only one street to cross before I walk through the front door and I notice their phone number on the store front…
Perhaps it would be better to call and set up an actual appointment, I think… then I wouldn’t have to do this today.
The procrastinator in me LOVES this idea. The part fed up with unruly hair does not.
After a brief internal battle, the unruly hair proves too much to overcome.
Please just Walk. Through. The. Door. Then it will be too late. You’ll have to stay.
I do.
Cautiously approaching the front desk, I spit out a nervous “Eu falo português poco …” with a smile, then regurgitate the phrase I’ve been practicing all the way here.
They laugh a little and nod encouragingly.
And I get a little taste of the relief that’s coming… I’m in!
But then they hand me a wad of material and point behind me, explaining their gestures in Portuguese as though I could understand.
The only thing I see is a stand that holds plastic bags to put your umbrella in when its raining.
It is not raining today.
I look back and forth between their pointing and the umbrella stand several times before I realize they might be pointing at my purse! Maybe this is a bag for my purse?
Yes… they definitely want me to put my purse in this wad of material.
I shake it out. it is a ginormous piece of fabric. I look questioning back at the receptionist… this is right?
No. Definitely not right.
She hands me a key on a large keychain and points in a different direction.
All I see are sinks and mirrors.
She points again. then points back at my purse.
Ah… lockers, in the far corner.
My turn to point… Me? to the lockers? Yes?
Yes.
I find my locker, deposit the purse.
Turn back toward the front desk, glancing around casually yet purposefully (something I’ve surely perfected by now), trying to figure out what to do with this giant wad of fabric I’m still holding.
I see a woman who’s getting a haircut… she is WEARING the giant wad of fabric.
It’s a robe.
I attempt to find the arms without looking too clumsy, though the show I’ve put on so far has surely betrayed the effort.
A friendly tech approaches. He finds the arms, helps me inside, knots the ties behind me.
Thankfully, he speaks just enough English…
“Wash? This way.”
I settle into the reclined chair and close my eyes.
Wash, condition, scalp massage!
Well that was nice.
“Finish!” he says. “Massage?”
I of course nod an enthusiastic YES PLEASE!!!
He leads me over to a tall stool. I sit. He places a towel over my shoulders and for a few, lovely, all too short moments, gives my shoulders a massage.
I enjoy them immensely.
But I also can’t help but wonder… am I paying extra for this? Wait, I didn’t even ask how much the haircut would cost... it’ll be worth it (hopefully?).
Hair washed, shoulders massaged, my tech leads me over to a station, Paula’s station. His job is done.
Stylist Paula has obviously been warned that I don’t speak Portuguese. Either that or she was privy to my earlier, confusion-filled show. Most likely the latter…
I use my hands and two simple words to explain how I want my hair cut: “longo” in the front, “baixa” in the back.
She looks confused.
I repeat. the words and the hand gestures.
Still confused......
(not until I return home do I realize my lingo is incorrect)
“um minuto…” she walks away.
I resume my casual yet purposeful gaze, pretending this is going exactly as it should.
She returns with a different tech… who speaks English!
I explain the angled bob I’d like.
Tech translates.
Paula shakes her head.
Tech translates: your hair is too short for that.
?
I don’t think it is… It doesn’t need to be SO angled. Just a little.
Tech translates.
Paula nods.
We exchange hand signals to settle on the desired length.
The process begins.
I once again resume my casual yet purposeful gaze.
There’s a woman across from me getting her eyebrows threaded. Another getting her nails done. And oh hello… an overly-observant tech staring at me in the mirror.
I quickly glance away, but of course look back to see if he’s still staring.
Yep.
Hmm. This is awkward.
I attempt to continue “acting natural” but I can feel my failure.
Before long, the friendly tech that washed my hair brings me a couple magazines to browse.
I thank him and wonder if he was watching the awkward exchange of glances… if that is what prompted his kind act.
Either way, I’m thankful to have something to look at.
I skim the articles, looking for words I know, sure that the tech behind me is amused.
I can’t read these words. I know it. He knows it.
A fresh appreciation for all of my previous hair stylists overwhelms me.
I used to be annoyed by the mindless chatter of hair salons. I used to wish for silence, to fully embrace the reprieve that a haircut offers from my normal.
Today I have the silence! But knowing that I can’t effectively communicate - if I wanted to - lessons the experience a bit.
I make a mental note to not be annoyed 3 years from now, when we’re back in the US and the celebrity gossip resumes.
Paula is almost finished. She holds up a mirror to show me the 360° view.
My hair is nearly the same length it was when I arrived.
Back to the hand signals.
She beckons over the English-speaking tech.
Shorter. Yes, ok.
I realize that in the US, I would have said nothing. I have a strange aversion to disagreeing with hair stylists.
But I need a haircut. Bad.
And if I don’t get it this time, I have to do this whole thing again. and soon.
which is something I’d rather not do.
So the Emily in Brazil voices her true opinion. And it feels good.
When Paula wraps up cut #2, I like what I see.
Oh sweet relief. We’re nearly there.
Paula is joined by the original, friendly tech.
They both wield hair dryers.
Is this normal? Or is this taking too long?
I have no idea.
When the cut is complete, I tell Paula thank you and head to the lockers to retrieve my purse.
Where should I put this robe? I don’t see a hamper, so I awkwardly (feels that way at least) give it to the receptionist. I’m sure that is not the right thing to do, but she kindly takes it anyway.
She tells me my total, but speaks too fast for me to understand. I give her my card and hope for the best.
Not bad!
Additional source of relief: I can afford to return here! - and next time will surely be less… everything.
I sigh a happy sigh as I thank the receptionist and head toward the door.
I’m feeling confident. I have conquered the haircut.
Then I trip over the doorframe on my way out.
And… yep, the receptionist saw it. I bet my overly-observant tech friend did too.
