My hair was getting out of control. The side bangs were drooping too long, the shape was completely lost, and my split ends were frizzing out: the time had come for a haircut.
So on my way back from class, I passed by this hair salon on my street and decided to step in to see if anyone speaks English. The hairdressers were these three gorgeous Italian men wearing tight, black V-neck shirts. The guy with the giant muscles and Goo Goo Dolls-style long hair welcomed me. He spoke a little bit of English…enough that I could make an appointment for 6pm this evening, but little enough that it took us about 3 minutes to make that exchange.
My Audrey Hepburn Roman Holiday haircut experience was on its way.
So at 6pm, I walked into the salon and was immediately attacked with butterflies in my stomach as it suddenly hit me: “Shit, how the hell am I going to describe to him what I want?” Through broken Italian, I tried to explain that I only wanted it a little shorter, with improved layers for a better shape, and a new face frame with the side-swipe right along my cheek bone. There was lots of crazy gesturing and facial expressions involved, and he understood most of it…but he had some ideas too.
At the time, I didn’t quite understand everything he meant. His English was by no means bad, but it still was somewhat limited. We especially struggled with the concepts of “layers,” “gradual,” “dramatic,” and “face frame.” As he played with my hair and expressed his ideas, he seemed to know what he was talking about, and I really did want a look that is sexy-standard in Italy. So I told him to go ahead and do what he thinks will look good.
Mamma mia! One moment, hair was blocking my eyes; a moment later, my view was opened up and I could watch my side-swipe fall down to my lap slow motion-style. I didn’t realize he’d be giving me bangs! And bangs with a strange piece that comes out further than the rest–very choppy and odd to me. It was too late to stop him from starting that short, so I just let him go with it, in hopes that his final vision would not look horrendous on my face. Ciao, hair.
At one point–I kid you not–this dramatic violin song played on the radio station. I couldn’t help smirking at the perfect soundtrack to my comprehensive feelings. When I thought he was done, he told me he wanted to [insert something I couldn’t quite understand here]. So I said ok, and he cut the bangs even a little shorter. “Ah, bigger window for your beautiful eyes!” he said. That I did understand. It was around this time when he remarked, “I am dangerous with the scissors.” SI.
Maybe the haircut is bad. Maybe it’s just different and not what I intended. I guess tonight out on my group date con un bello ragazzo italiano will be the true test 🙂 (Yup, just casually sliding that in there :D)