So I pretend its not that bad, and Italians won't notice anyways, for a little bit of blonde goes a longgg way with them. And honestly, who am I to be vain while none of my experiences rely on the state of my hair for their quality? Capri isn't going to judge my grow out and I certainly can't foresee Pompeii pointing and laughing.
But although I shove my hair qualms to the way back of my brain, they still resurface. Every time I look in a mirror my roots scream at me. "Negligence!" They wail. "Do you have no respect for us? For yourself?!"
So I've been avoiding mirrors.
And throughout the week I make a point to stop in the occasional hair salon getting "price quotes" but sneakily judging the space, the hairstylists, and the magazines on display with a very critical eye.
There is this one salon I check out called "Sabrina's", and although it's small, it has a comfortable charm and Sabrina has really good english. I seem to pass this particular salon twenty times throughout the week, even though it's not on my daily route. Yet, I'm still not ready to bite the bullet.
Finally on a return trip from my cell phone shop, I stumble upon Sabrina's again. Ready or not, it's a sign. And I'm sick of being bullied by my reflection.
As if the fates had arranged it, Sabrina has an availability right then and there.
Cautiously, I perch in her chair as she drapes a cape over me. Here we go, I think, Doomsday. But the moment Sabrina parts my hair into the familiar triangle foil pattern so typically practiced by those trained through Toni & Guy (I worked at a hair salon for a long time), and I subsequently find that she had, in fact, been trained by them in New York, I am at ease.
It's all I can do not to interrogate her on what brand of color she uses (which later, to my satisfaction, I discover is L'oreal). Italians don't like being bombarded with questions, you must coax these kinds of things out of them.
At one point her assistant- adorable, skinny Eduardo- asks if he can get me something from the bar while he's there. I look at him, dressed in all white and garnished with a little Italian flag pin in recognition of the country's 150th anniversary, and shake my head no, thank you. But despite my polite declination he returns with two large spritzers and snacks.
Not one to argue, I contentedly nibble on cheese puffs and pretzels as I read my Italian In-Style, trying desperately to absorb the language, as it's probably more relevant than the things I learn in my Italian classes. I become bored while I process, as I ultimately can't understand any of my magazines.
I look over to find Eduardo in the corner, minding his own business. I ask him a question or two about how long he has worked with Sabrina, and finally realizing I'm searching for conversation, he comes and sits at the station next to me.
Once unleashed he is a fountain of information. I find out that he too was trained in New York, and that his third dream in life is to get an apartment there with his boyfriend. New York, he says, is his favorite- "the city of his soul". His eyes roll back in his head as he exclaims how much he loves the positive energy of the place.
On this note, his second dream in life (but really tied for first with going to Argentina, and still ultimately before moving to NY) is to visit California. "I want to see all of it," he breathes excitedly. "San Francisco, LA, San Diego, Laguna, Santa Monica…"He is going to Thailand next week with his boyfriend, and highly recommends both that for my future travels, and Cuba, where the "sand is white and the water progresses from turquoise to blue to purple, and is too beautiful for words". (I disagree, I think- despite the language barrier he seems actually quite gifted with descriptions).
He also says I have white teeth and nice hair. This one's a keeper, I think ;)
All in all I am very satisfied with my experience. My hair looks wonderful, the price was great, and anyways, you can't put a price on good company.
Glad you're not forgetting your roots!
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