Stars...They're Just like US

Well this is not me, in fact, it is a picture of the lovely Portia di Rossi…and because she is such a beautiful young woman, you might not realize that the top of her hairline has actually been attacked by an eager (a Bulgarian trained no doubt) hairdresser. Can you see there how the top of her hair has actually been crimped? This is an important image for you to have as you continue reading this blog entry. I say that because a few weeks ago (apologies for the late entry), I decided to brave a haircut here in Sofia. While this may sound like a very boring afternoon activity to you, for me, it always represents a milestone in my life as a foreigner. That is to say it signifies the moment when either I begin to trust the host country somewhat —or that I cannot stand looking at myself in the mirror any longer, and I realize that my next flight back to the US is still a good four months away. So I made an appointment with my friend, who assured me that this salon was the nicest in town—in fact, when we went to look up the number online, we found an article spotlighting this posh Salon in Bulgarian Cosmopolitan (yes, we have our own publication of this rag—too bad the articles read like this: “Срещате се от достатъчно дълго време, за да ти е ясно, че си на път да се превърнеш в неговото момиче. Ето как безпроблемно да си осигуриш този статус.”). At any rate, on Friday afternoon, I headed out to get beautified.

On my cab ride into town while I looked over the snowy streets inhaling the second-hand smoke of my taxi driver, I thought back to my first (and only) haircut/highlight experience in Roma. Yes Italy!—where you think fashion is cooked up like one of its deliciouso pizza margaritas. Well my experience was not so perfecto. I have a memory of myself squirming, trapped in the salon chair while the hair dresser hovered over me---a cigarette dangled carelessly from his mouth; in one of his hands some electric yellow highlighting paste, in the other a small paint brush, in which, like the great Da Vinci he worked over my head. For you males out there, this probably seems like a normal way of applying color—you females are probably gasping in horror. And it was…horrible.

In Paraguay, a trip to the pelicularia was no less exciting. I first became suspicious when I saw how my middle school students would enter these places and then depart looking like 40 year old hookers. The fake tans, nails, and hair colors coupled with thick black eyeliner, rich black mascara, and black “smoky-eyed” eye-shadow was enough to scare away any shred of youthful innocence they maintained before their 4 p.m. appointment. For my teacher friends, their experiences at the salon was part of the lifestyle in the ‘Guay—a weekly ritual where grinas got their hair “blown out” and dyed like their 80 year-old grandmas were doing back in the US. These girls cackled over four dollar manicures and 20 dollar highlights. For me, however, the experience reminded me of visiting a local petting zoo. Upon entering someone would begin washing your hair, another person cleaning your nails, another person your feet—and so on and so on. Not to mention that the experience was exhausting, taking a minimum of three to four hours. For those of you who know me well, you know that my idea of hell-on-earth is having someone poke, prod, and massage me for anything longer than four seconds.

And so, as I approached the Bulgarian salon, I mused over these cultural experiences, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
Well, I was late. She could not get me into the chair right away, so I settled on—what the hell—having a manicure. While it was pricey compared to Paraguay (it worked out to be whooping $8 US), I decided to treat myself. As I sat down, I stuck out my hands to the manicurist, who prompted gave them the once-over and said in perfect English, “Yuck.” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. In a thick (think Russian since you might not know how to imagine the Bulgarian accent) she continued, “How long has it been?”

Pause.

“A few months,” I lied.

“What do you want me to do with this?” she asked in disgust as she gestured flippantly to my nails. It was as if there was no possible solution to my home-maintained hands.

I squirmed helplessly.

She sensed there was no good answer forming in my throat.

“I’m going to have to cut them,” she said with a nod of her head (which actually is a negative gesture in Bulgaria).

I decided to play the victim, “I am not from here," I pleaded, “I did not know where to go.”

She nodded sympathetically, yet suspiciously, and began.

An hour later, I settled into the Salon chair with very very short, wet nails, and began explaining to the hairdresser that I only wanted a trim—no color—no crazy highlights. She began fluffing my hair, and inquired with a frown, “Who cut your hair last?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had visited the Hair Cuttery while in the States.

She continued, “Was the person who cut your hair drunk?”

I laughed, wide-eyed before I realized that this was not, in fact, a rhetorical question.

She asked again a little more forcefully, the accent thickening “Was the person who cut your hair drunk?”

“No, no,” I assured her.

She nodded (again a gesture of doubt) while stealing a glance over at her coworkers.

****
The haircut was fine. It was one of those cuts that, upon completion, you are not really sure that it even happened. However, it was what happened next that will always haunt me…

I saw her hands reach for a plug. I followed the cord up to the shelf, but there were many—so many—instruments jumbled together. She was working behind me. It was dark. I heard the sound of hairspray and could almost feel my stands of hair quivering. Then I saw it.

A crimper.

Just like I had owned twenty years before. “That’s not a crimper,” I thought, but before I could even finish the sentence in my head, I heard the sound of what can only be described as “hairspray singeing.” Seeing my eyes widen, she exclaimed with her dripping accent, “You are going to have incredible—incredible volume.”

Like Santa, she said not a word, but went straight to her work. There was teasing, and spraying, and combing, and the sound of hair burning into the crimper. I have blocked most of it out now.

An hour later, she turned my hair dramatically around toward the mirror, and there…there I sat. I former image of myself. No pictures were taken. I am not sure how to describe myself except to explain the look—your imagination will give it justice. The Bulgarians prefer to crimp close to the roots, but only about two inches of crimping. The rest of the hair is left straightened. This crimping occurs in layers. It begins on the bottom and goes around the head. Then a layer of straight hair is combed over top. They another layer of crimping….and another straight. Each layer of crimp adds about an inch of volume to the top of your hair, and the final look has about four inches of crimp-puff.

I can honestly say that I have never looked so ugly. “You are beautiful,” she said emphatically as she shook her head “no,” which, in fact, means “yes.” It didn’t matter.

Leaving the Salon, I ran through the rain as the feeling of shame puddled around me. Even the water was helpless against this kind of volume. I was reminded of that Sex and the City episode, “The Freak Show.”

Boarding the bus, I looked tearfully over at my friend. She looked normal. She had had her hair highlighted and straightened. There was no Bulgarian beauty added. I stammered, “How? Why?” She smiled consolingly, “My first time,” she confessed, “was worse.” “I had a date that night—and I had to leave straight from the Salon to dinner…She asked me if I wanted it straight or curly. I thought curly would be fun,” she paused dramatically. “I left looking like a cross between Dolly Parton and a hooker.”

“Is there a difference?” I wailed.

She grabbed my hand, looked me square in the eyes, and said emphatically, “Yes.” She didn’t let go.

At that moment, I realized that like a new fraternity pledge, I had been given the new-girl treatment. Next time, I would know to shout out, “No styling, just plain.” I could learn to handle this type of cultural confusion.

And with a deep breath, I lifted my eyes. Shaking out my crimped and straightened trestles, I stood tall, looked people in the eye and came to the realization that on this street, in this crowded bus, somewhere in Bulgaria, I was beautiful.