From the first day I arrived in Italy, I had out-of-control hair. Everyday was a bad hair day. I know, some of you are rolling your eyes and thinking, “She’s such a whiner, she should be thankful she has hair, she is self-absorbed . . . boo hoo hoo . . .”. I admit, I could have had worse problems but for me this was almost enough to ruin a good vacation.
In reading through my journal, I am reminded just how awful my hair behaved. Everyday I wrote about the frustration, anger, and dismay I experienced because of my hair. Let me explain.
If it wasn’t raining during our stay in Rome, the humidity was about 99%. My hair goes wild and free in the humidity. The blow dryer provided in the apartment was adequate but was not enough to tame my fuzzy mess. My flat iron, one of life’s necessities, would not work even with the converter. Too many volts were causing it to shut off after 5 seconds. This could only spell disaster for me. So, it was ponytail time.
When we arrived in Florence, I had a meltdown when the blow dryer in our room wouldn’t stay on for more than 30 seconds. I told Francis that it was imperative I get to a hair salon. No matter how shallow this sounds, I didn’t feel good about myself and I needed help immediately. I was prepared to pay big euros for a hair transformation. So, we asked for a recommendation from our hostess at the B&B and she directed us to I Rinascimenti Compagnia Della Bellezza, a salon only a short distance away.
We were greeted by a lovely lady who spoke a tiny bit of English. Through the miracle of her broken English and my hand gestures, we were able to establish my need for a wash, dry, and style. As if receiving a holy epiphany, she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, no frizzies!” I replied with great enthusiasm, “Si, no frizzies!” She looked at the appointment book and said, “Come back. Four o’clock.”
So, promptly at four o’clock, I returned to the salon. She greeted me and introduced me to Sasha, the cute, young Italian who was to turn my frizzy mop into a sleek and stylish coiffure.
Thus began my experience with Sasha. He took me back to the shampoo bowl where he stood behind my head to wash my hair. And boy, did he wash my hair. He massaged and kneaded my head like it was a lump of bread dough. This went on for at least 15 minutes. Now, picture Meg Ryan in the restaurant scene in “When Harry Met Sally”. You remember the event she was faking and the older woman sitting nearby said, “I’ll have what she’s having.”? Well people, it was that good!
Finally, he asked me to come with him to his station. I was barely able to walk but in sheer ecstacy I did manage to stagger to his chair where he began to work his magic. He blew my hair dry, applied some expensive products, and fired up the flat iron. The entire time he was drying and styling he was talking, talking, talking. Sasha had previously lived in the States and he could speak very good English so I could keep up with him pretty well. In one breath he told me he was mourning the loss of his male lover and in the next breath he told me he was interested in finding an American wife. Needless to say, I was totally confused.
Not only that, but apparently Sasha’s brain was going faster than his tongue. He would catch his breath and then simply say, “You know, blah, blah, blah . . .”. Over and over he repeated, “You know, blah, blah, blah . . .”. I was very amused but didn’t dare laugh out loud for fear he would do something awful to my hair.
Finally, after one hour of kneading, rubbing, rinsing, drying, combing, and spraying, Sasha was finished. I couldn’t believe how awesome my hair looked. It was shiny, smooth, and well-behaved. My life was suddenly good and I was ready to explore Florence. I turned to Francis and said, “Now I feel like ME again!” “NO FRIZZIES!”
May 20, 2009
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