Oh Senorita!

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So there we were. Sitting at a cafe gossiping about the strange characters in our little hostel. The crazy middle aged woman from Lima who parades around in her fake levi jeans and behaves like she is on a south american soap opera. The very black and outwardly camp columbian refugee who hosts an afternoon radio show on human rights and columbian culture. The hairy and overly affectionate Isralite who works on a farm during the week and obviously craves female attention. The well meaning but dithering Eucadorian owner, a latino version of Fawlty Towers who still can´t believe I broke the key in the lock....and the random middle aged Columbian hairdresser who hasn´t quite come to terms with his sexuality.

We were just celebrating our $2 haircuts from the salon when the hairdresser spotted us from across the road and sauntered over in his stripey pants and expensive man bag. After a short conversation in spanish to Amy he noticed me. Alarmed, he leapt out of his chair and inspected my roots. Oh Senorita, tsk tsk. What a mess. Running expert fingers through my bedraggled locks he muttered to Amy in spanish that he couldn´t possibly go on living if he didn´t do something to reinvigorate my colour.

He was momentarily distracted as he noticed my travel battered feet which were unable to hide in thongs. He clasped them in consternation, appalled that I could be out in public. A quick inspection of my unkempt fingernail confirmed that I was in need of some drastic help. Indeed, what kind of a woman was I?

He whisked us off to the store to buy all manner of colours, files and brushes and set up shop in our hostel room.

Previously a professional ballet dancer, now leader of a bizarre religious movement (that somehow must involve ensuring ubiquitos beauty) he set to work on me. When I confessed that I had never had a manicure and only ever had one pedicure his face visibly paled in shock. There was more muttering and tsking and with all seriousness he asked if all women in Australia were that bad. I tried to explain the rigours of travelling but he wouldn´t hear of it.

After much filing, scrubbing and poking he proclaimed my feet to no longer be those of a man but objects worthy of adoration. In fact he said, men weren´t real men if they didn´t value a woman with good feet. Hmmm.....

Meanwhile.....the foils in my hair were coming along nicely. My spanish vocabularly didn´t extend to hairdressing terminology however Amy, more fluent in spanish than I, had confirmed with him that I simply wanted some highlights.

However.....as is often the case with artists....what YOU want is never a consideration. It´s all about theír expression and frankly dark hair is ooohhh so common in South America daarling.

And thus.....my vision of highlighted brown hair went down the drain with the bucket of tint and a glance in the mirror to observe the finished product revealed a shocking head of blonde hair!

Always one to see the funny side, I couldn´t help but laugh while he crowed over his masterpiece. Ah well, perhaps I will be able to test the age old saying that blondes have more fun......at least for a few days until I buy that packet of brown do-it-yourself colour from the pharmacy.

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Photos

We could be sisters.....
Laughing about it with Amy in our hostel

Celebrating my new identity
Although it looks a bit fanta pants for my liking!

At least I don´t wear orange spandex
Have you heard the expression camel toe?