Courtney Gets Her Hair Did

Hair is sacred. As all females know, once you find a stylist you trust that "gets" your hair you two will never part. If he/she moves salons, you track them down. If you move out of town, you will meticulously schedule your appointments for when you are back in the area. Unfortunately for me, I discovered my hair Messiah about 8 months before I moved to Spain. Going off my friend Jess's recommendation, I made an appointment for a cut and color with Mark at Bang Salon Metropole in DC. Mark was the first stylist I had that didn't try to be the first one to chop my hair, and he colored and gave my hair a blow-out before I picked up Elliot at the airport after his deployment. We had many moments that day as I told him all about our relationship through the deloyment, how we got engaged, etc. etc. Close to weeping, Mark said he was going go above and beyond with my hair that appointment and make me look like I was going to walk the Victoria Secret runway (well, minus the body). Mark also dyed my hair red the night before we left for Spain, so we have shared many "holding hands twirling each other around in field of flowers" moments together. For all of you still in the DC area, here's my recommendation from across the pond: Get your hair done by Mark at Bang Salon-Metropole; he's the best.

It's been 5 months since I was last in the States, and my hair was in desperate need of some touch-up color and a trim. For the past 5 or 6 years, I have kept my almost waist-length and it's been my trademark since. It has also become a tangled mess of split-ends and dryness. I almost always wore it up in a bun due to the "fuzzy" look it got when I would wear it down. Well, that and my overall laziness and unwillingness to actually put the time into doing my hair. My 'do has especially taken a hit from Spain's hard water the past few months. Since my next trip to the States is TBD, I consulted with people on base to find a local Spanish hairdresser to prevent my hair from becoming a vine.

Two girls at the school had gotten their hair done by a guy in Moron (the city, not the base) a few times, and he had always done a great job with the color and cut. Ramon is also the tried and true recommendation of the Spanish teacher at the school, Isabel. She generously called and booked the appointment for me to have my hair highlighted and trimmed at 7:30pm. I thought that was a little late, given that Brandy and Jessica had both said their hair (about shoulder length) had taken over 3 hours to color and cut. Whatever; it was cheaper than in the States with this guy, and I was in desperate need of a trim so I didn't question it.

After looking up various hair-related phrases in Spanish and hanging out on base until appointment time, I walked into Ramon's little shop behind Moron's town hall. It's a little one-man shop that you'd miss if you blinked, with only 3 customer seats and 2 sinks in a relatively small room. Ramon was busy blow-drying another customer's hair, but he glanced at his appointment book and asked if I was Courtney. To my delight, he actually pronounced my name correctly! I think he may be the first Spaniard to do so without my assistance. Figuring that to be a good sign, I settled down on the couch, below the crochet-looking framed art of what appeared to be peasants (random), grabbed the Spanish Hello! magazine off the table and waited for my turn.

After reading about the Duchess of Alba's latest wedding to a man 20 years her junior: http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-31749_162-20116849-10391698.html , Ramon sat down next to me and took a look at the post-it note of translations that I brought with me. The first thing out of his mouth was that it was too late to do highlights with my hair being so long; we would have to do them another day. Since it was late and I didn't want to be there until midnight, I was totally okay with re-scheduling the color. We were good to go for the cut though. I had been watching him cut the hair of a few customers before me, and I was pleased that I had decided to go there. He did a really funky cut on a young girl and a flattering one on an older woman who looked like she had never smiled in her life, so it was entertaining to watch his scissors fly.

Ramon is a squat, bald man with piercing blue eyes and a big belly squeezed into a wayyyy too small t-shirt with a picture of crossing blow-dryers that said "License to Blonde". I had to stifle a laugh, as that just seemed like such a terrible play on words. His baby blues got as big as saucers when I took my hair out of the ponytail and let it cascade down. He led me (as much as you can lead someone 3 ft) to a sink, where a girl with snow-leopard Zubaz pants shampooed and detangled my hair. Her and another assistant stylist both worked at combing out my hair, and Zubaz gal parted it into sections, which she then twisted and pinned to my head. She left the back layer down, since I had told Ramon that I wanted my hair to be all the same length in the back. I was tired of having my hair look like a witch's broom when I wore it down.

Ramon got his scissors to work, complimenting me IN ENGLISH on my hair, and knocked off about 4 inches from that bottom layer. Suppressing a scream, I mentally calmed myself down and continued to smile. He had me stand up, turn to face him, and bow to him. I thought this was because I looked like a geisha in my robe and hair pinned to my head, and I burst out laughing. No, it turns out he wanted me to bow my head so he could cut my layers. Feeling like my Aunt Mary Ann did when she thought the tour guide said not to bring "Caesar's knife" into the building rather than bring "scissors and knife" into it and thinking it a clever joke, I bowed as I was told-red faced and all.

My internal progression of reactions/thought process when he started chopping away layers would have made any Catholic schoolteacher/guilt mongerer proud:

About to go on a murderous rampage with a blow-dryer -->

"Not that much!!!! My hair's my trademark!" -->

"Really? Your hair's your trademark? That's just sad" -->

"At least it's healthy... I hate it" -->

"It's hair. Hair grows back" -->

"Be grateful that you even have hair!"

When the dust had settled, and the snow-like flurry of hair came to a rest, my hair was the shortest it's been in YEARS. Hey, at least he gave me a good cut.

PS Don't make my mistake; be sure to triple-check your translations before going into a salon. Asking if the salon worker is going to "blow me" is entirely different from asking if they are going to "blow-dry me".