Milestone
Maybe we should call for more fireworks.
Two years into my life in Spain, during this week in which so many "yeh, I live here" pieces seemed to fall into place, I finally reached the ultimate milestone of any move.
I committed myself to a hairdresser.
It's true! I have made it through the nightmare of every move I've ever made - the search for a hairdresser who will take control of my hair (making up for my utter lack of hair imagination), contradict me when I spout bad hair ideas, and make sitting around being a girl for a few hours a pleasant experience.
His name is Carlos. And I should have known I'd love him. The friend who recommended him is the friend who came back from New York talking about Cosmopolitans, the only American yuppie I've ever met who's never lived in the US. Despite her frustration when I fail to recognize the best brand of cafeteras or lamps or shoes or who knows what, she responded to my hairdresser inquiry with a confident smile, a phone number and map.
When Carlos listened patiently, then told me I was dead wrong, here's what we would do, I knew I'd found my place. By the time he was cutting, singing Monica Molina at the top of his lungs, I was sold.
And he's given me a new identity. When his assistant dutifully agreed to enter my name into the salon's database, she had apparently not been warned that I had one of those names. Not Spanish. We got through Erin, but my response to her polite "¿Y el apellido?" shocked her. "Corcoran. C-o-r-c.." "Da igual", she said, as Salmantinos so often say. "We'll call you Erin."
And so there you'll find me, deep in the database of loyal customers, alongside Maria Isabel García Fernandez, and Isabel Fadrique Martín,and Carmen del Rey Flores and a long list of double-surnamed, well-coiffed españolas. Surrounded by 20 syllabled, tripled named neighbors, there I sit:
Erin
Two years into my life in Spain, during this week in which so many "yeh, I live here" pieces seemed to fall into place, I finally reached the ultimate milestone of any move.
I committed myself to a hairdresser.
It's true! I have made it through the nightmare of every move I've ever made - the search for a hairdresser who will take control of my hair (making up for my utter lack of hair imagination), contradict me when I spout bad hair ideas, and make sitting around being a girl for a few hours a pleasant experience.
His name is Carlos. And I should have known I'd love him. The friend who recommended him is the friend who came back from New York talking about Cosmopolitans, the only American yuppie I've ever met who's never lived in the US. Despite her frustration when I fail to recognize the best brand of cafeteras or lamps or shoes or who knows what, she responded to my hairdresser inquiry with a confident smile, a phone number and map.
When Carlos listened patiently, then told me I was dead wrong, here's what we would do, I knew I'd found my place. By the time he was cutting, singing Monica Molina at the top of his lungs, I was sold.
And he's given me a new identity. When his assistant dutifully agreed to enter my name into the salon's database, she had apparently not been warned that I had one of those names. Not Spanish. We got through Erin, but my response to her polite "¿Y el apellido?" shocked her. "Corcoran. C-o-r-c.." "Da igual", she said, as Salmantinos so often say. "We'll call you Erin."
And so there you'll find me, deep in the database of loyal customers, alongside Maria Isabel García Fernandez, and Isabel Fadrique Martín,and Carmen del Rey Flores and a long list of double-surnamed, well-coiffed españolas. Surrounded by 20 syllabled, tripled named neighbors, there I sit:
Erin
Labels: on living in Spain
posted by Erin at
4:47 PM
5 Comments:
Too funny! I finally made the same committment. Though mine doesn't sound nearly as much fun as yours. She spend 2 hours on this Medusa mop of split ends and madness and actually...gosh, gave me something that seemed like a style, not just more wildness. Oh, it's still long...and she said nothing of my grey. She just seemed to care about how I looked at the end and, yeah, it was nice to feel like a girl for a while.
Such simple pleasures. I love it when someone else washes my hair.
Now if she would just sing for me...
By
Laura, at 5:46 PM
Girly congrats, in that case.
And hmm...maybe if you start singing with the background tunes she'll join in?
I love when people sing in public. (Yeh I know, I know, sometimes I have a hard time doing it, as you know...)
The electrician serenaded me while he worked the other day as well.
By
Erin, at 1:29 PM
I loved this and 'I know, I know, I know' ...
In Istanbul I found a good hairdresser, a maestro really. I loved and adored him, sticking with him after Turkish colleagues took me and my coiffure in hand.
Here in Belgium well ... 'when I'm legal to work' I'll go hunting. So far I've had the 'girls night out' hair cut and the 'cut after the bike ride in the park'.
I'm still dreaming of finding my Carlos.
By
Di Mackey, at 7:35 PM
Lucky you! I have such bizarre experiences every time I go to the French hairdresser. Still searching for "the one." By the time I find him or her, it will be time to go. Sigh.
By
paris parfait, at 9:54 PM
Ah, he's out there, girls, he or she is out there.
And now I can exhale and move on to other worries -- Salamanca and I have another bond - Carlos.
By
Erin, at 12:39 PM
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