guiri´s and natives, is there any hope?

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A few weeks ago, I had an impromptu dinner after work at La Epoca near metro Alonzo Martinez. The ‘Peter Andre’ camarero (I swear Jordan is in that kitchen!) gave us penniless teachers copious amounts of free wine which resulted in a heated discussion about the attractive qualities of Spanish men. We brainstormed and suggested overly-scrawny, too into their looks, excessively slimebaggish….then we discussed how when we returned home, the natives of our respective countries were suddenly easier to talk to and somehow more desirable. There was an absence of a shared sense of humour in potential Spanish partners. After being away, your own culture and a shared history becomes rather important or binding somehow. But perhaps, this being a travel blog after all, an illustrative anecdote is necessary to clarify my point.

Today, I did something I abhor with a passion. Usually, I’d rather be tarred and feathered, drink the venom of a thousand snakes or have needles inserted into all my orifices with a nail gun than have my hair cut. I realise this may sound wimpish but let me explain. I can go about 6-8 months without thinking of hairdressers. Gradually, as one more of my collegues arrives to work bouncy with high spirits at having some trendy new bouffant, I begin combing my hair forward and imagining straightness, rather than kinks. Vertical lines and stylish fringes rather than constant ratty ponytails. A simple image begins to float in my mind and I hum and haw and dawdle at hairdressers windows, pretending to be looking at the price when really I’m wondering how I’ll cope when I look like Julia Roberts. There’ll be autographs to sign, premieres to attend. Suddenly, without warning, I find myself exchanging pleasantries with a woen I don’t know, taking off my coat and assuming the black cloak of doom, like I today on Calle Alcala.

As soon as I saw myself with messy wet hair and a cramp in my neck, I knew it was a mistake. I have yet to find a hairdressers where there are no mirrors. I can’t understand what they are there for; hairdressers do whatever they want anyway. When I spoke in the hairdresser’s native language in Ireland, I never even came close to the picture I nervously showed them, ripped from a magazine half an hour before I had my appointment. In fact, in Vietnam, with no language at all, I came closer to getting what I wanted, but that could have been because then I didn’t have access to celebrity magazines so I had no concept of what I wanted to look like. Of course, it’s only after horrendous bowl haircuts and disastrous highlight jobs over 24 years that I realise having no idea of what you want is actually the best philosophy. It also makes it more amusing as you get to enjoy the hairdressers frustrated attempts to get you to describe what you want. That’s when the mirrors really come into their own, watching in glee at her pouting and rolling eyes. Both of you know she’ll do whatever she wants anyway, but she can’t professionally admit it.

Today I can blame my inability to describe what I want on language difficulties. I had only a few choice words for the hairdresser. “Puedo cortar mi pelo con flequillo” translates roughly (I think) as “Can you cut my hair with fringe.” (I chose not to use articles in front of nouns as a political statement). I added por favour for good measure and she started snipping happily away, experimenting as she probably does with all uncommunicative guiri’s (foreigners), who she knows has no language to complain. Next to me, a man in a pink polo neck has asked for the rear view mirror and held up, beside his head, a picture of Tom Cruise on a motorbike. Measuring the length of his locks he takes over from the hairdresser and started gelling his hair vertically, so that he looks like he is being electrocuted. Twenty minutes later, my hair finished and the man on my left is picking highlight colours from what must have been a ‘style bible’, I leave resolute not to return until December 2010, where I’m sure I’ll find the Spanish man having the latest perm, as advertised in Vogue. Attractive? I think not. Think I’ll watch Gladiator just to restore my faith in testosterone once more.

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Comments

[Keira]

this post needs photos!