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:
Labels: on living in Spain