I knew I needed a haircut and color — the gray was getting to the point that even Gary, who rarely comments on my hair mentioned it (editors note: bad move, Gary).
So, I began searching out hair stylists on the internet here. I finally settled on one that was about 20 minutes walking distance from our apartment. I spent hours memorizing the correct vocabulary — haircut, color with highlights, and decided it would be best to make the appointment in person rather than try it over the telephone.
So late one afternoon I walked to “The Wave.” I entered and in my best Italian explained that I wanted a haircut and color. I scheduled the appointment for the next morning at 10 am. Then the receptionist asked what my native language was; I answered “inglese”. She said, “Your appointment will be with Alessandro — he speaks English.” She called Alessandro over and asked him to give me a consult in advance of our appointment.
Alessandro sat me in a chair, ran his fingers through my hair and said. “This hair is what I would call a mess.”
Well. Thank you. Alessandro. For your honesty. (Editors note: bad move, Alessandro).
Truth be told, he was correct. I had not had time to have it colored before I left home; the day before leaving I got a quick trim in a salon under construction (my regular salon had burned in an arson fire and they were still undergoing reconstruction).
Although I had purchased a European curling iron (having learned the hard way that a U.S. curling iron or hair dryer, even dual-voltage travel ones, will blow out fuses in any European locale with or without converters or adaptors), I had only used it once. Most days I ran a comb or brush through my hair and off I went, thinking, no one knows me, who cares how I look. I had forgotten that Italians do not go out unless they are looking good — cutting “una bella figura.”
Alessandro began pulling out color samples — “I think a color like this, with highlights like this will look good.” You decide I told him; see you tomorrow morning.
The next morning Alessandro was waiting with a smile. “I say this hair is a mess,” he told me (again), “because you are trying to make it do something it does not want to do, something not natural for your face and head. I will do the best I can, but it needs to grow a bit more.”
He took me back to the color station and applied the color; when it came time to wash my hair he spent eight minutes washing and massaging my head. I learned getting your hair done in Italy is like an Italian meal — no rush, no hurry, take your time and enjoy.
When the color was done, he applied highlights; instead of a dryer, they use a heat lamp that pulls down from the top of the wall near the ceiling and opens and closes around your head. Alessandro says the heat is better for the hair and color than hot air.
He explained to me that he knows lots of hair techniques but is not a hair technician. “I am an artist,” he said. “If the person sitting in the chair next to you asks me to fix her hair the same way I have fixed yours, I would say, ‘not possible.’ You do not have the same hair, the same face, the same head; you are not the same age. The hair must be suited to the individual.”
Well, four hours and 160 euros later, the artist was finished, and I must say I was pleased. The hair suited me. You will not see a photo though, because I forgot to take one when he finished and now, a few days later, I just cannot get that look. I promise to take a photo when I go back next month for a trim
