Fighting Your Stylist: An American in an Italian Beauty Parlor
For most of her adult life, my 84-year-old godmother went to the beauty parlor once a week. The depression and World War II didn’t get in the way, nor did crippling arthritis or osteoporosis. “It’s part of having a happy life,” she told me. “You feel relaxed and beautiful afterwards, and that’s important.”
Once a week sounded over the top to me (what about the time? the cost?) but I agreed with my godmother that that kind of self-love and pampering — you time — is not only nice but necessary. Taking yourself out of the chaos of life for a few hours to unwind, and then to emerge with bouncing, glossy curls is a great idea.
In Naples, I discovered, you could forget relaxation and pampering. There was a battle to be waged and won.
When I moved to Italy after college, I learned that Italian women also believe in regular beauty parlor appointments. Their reasoning and approach to salon visits, however, is profoundly different from Americans’. At the ubiquitous parrucchieri in Naples, I discovered, you could forget relaxation and pampering. There was a battle to be waged and won.
I met the man who would become my husband three days after arriving in Naples for what was supposed to be a 3-month internship at the American Consulate there. I fell in love with Salvatore, and surprisingly, with his mother: a gorgeous, gutsy Neapolitan signora. Raffaella became my mentor and friend, and I followed her to church, to clothing stores, and occasionally to the beauty parlor.
The first time my future mother-in-law brought me to the Compagnia di Bellezze in downtown Naples, I was surprised to see that she threw back two shots of espresso before we got in the car. Apparently, she needed to be revved up for combat with Rino, the owner of the salon. When we entered, he was perched on one of his swivel chairs blow drying his own sandy blonde hair. Rino looked like Patrick Swayze in his glory days.
“And if you do mine like you did last time, I’m never setting foot in this place again.”
“Signooooooora!” he hopped off the chair to kiss my mother-in-law on both cheeks, as if he hadn’t seen her in years. She introduced me, the Americana, and I immediately regretted the polka- dot scrunchy that held my hair back. Rino pulled it out, examined me top to bottom, and then started massaging my head. (I should mention that hairdressers in Naples are often players, flirtatious and macho. Think Fabio of romance novel fame.) It was extremely awkward to have this gorgeous man caressing me as my boyfriend’s mother looked on.
Raffaella told Rino in Neapolitan dialect how my hair should be done, and then added in perfect, well-articulated Italian: And if you do mine like you did last time, I’m never setting foot in this place again.
As the salon filled, I realized that there were no women smiling, or relaxing. The customers, whether they were 18 or 80, knew exactly what they wanted. All hairdressers are incompetent, they seemed to think, and the only way to obtain results that are in the ballpark of what you have in mind is to get pissed off. And hurl insults.
Indeed, before long she whipped around and grabbed the curling brush from the young apprentice’s hand.
Raffaella was far away from my station, but came over with curlers in her hair every few minutes to give instructions to Rino’s assistant. Midway through my styling, I noticed that the russet-haired 70-year-old next to me was beginning to growl. At first, I didn’t think the sound was coming from her, because her face was placid, her mouth closed, her make-up impeccable. But under the white noise of the blow dryer I could hear an unmistakable low growl. As there were no dogs around, I realized that the signora was working up to something. Indeed, before long she whipped around and grabbed the curling brush from the young apprentice’s hand.
“Qui!” (Here! And she lifted a tuft of hair from the side of her head to show him) “Non sono brutti, sono bruttissimi!” (It’s not ugly, it’s heinous!) Rino strode over to defend his assistant, without a hint of concern. They were used to this. They discussed the situation with the signora, everyone speaking at once, sometimes turning to look at me after making their point to see if they could enlist my support. At one point, Raffaella appeared in her black tae kwon do robe with a styling brush sticking out of her head to agree with the signora.
I did not want to take sides. To me, the lady’s hair looked transparent and maroon and that was something that I did not want to share. When they finally simmered down and the hairdressers got back to work (the Signora was still scowling at her reflection in the mirror), Rino leaned down to tell me something in my ear. His cologne stung my nostrils.
“Thank God you’re American. Foreigners are always the best customers!”
Although it’s nice to be considered a star client, I was jealous. The women around me didn’t need anyone to make them feel beautiful, because they knew they already were. And to relax, why not go to the beach? I hope that at seventy I go to the hairdressers ready to growl, and to show those imbeciles how it’s done.
Only in Naples: Lessons in Food and Famiglia from My Italian Mother-in-Law published by Penguin Random House on April 19, 2016. Copyright © 2016 Katherine Wilson
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