*Novelty*

The following is a continuation on Bolivian beauty, fashion, and general social lives of…us.

When Emily offered to take me to get my hair cut for the equivalent of twenty US dollars, I was a little shocked. That’s expensive! However, knowing her mother’s fashion connections (she’s the woman who got us into the Yanbal beauty thingy) and that the hair cutter person routinely cuts hair for models, I thought it was worth it. Perhaps there’s a flaw in my logic, but if he cuts hair for models, then he could cut my hair like a model’s, and I can pretend to look like a model. All that for only twenty US dollars! With that perspective how could I say no?
The following Saturday we were driven to the salon. Emily, Leah, and I were assigned a wash, cut, and style and were seated on a couch between robed women waiting for their highlights to cook, or getting their toenails buffed. We sat there on that couch and realized that this was the most professional haircut we were probably going to get. Ever. Everywhere, glamorous employees in uniforms and stilettos directed women to this stylist, that tanning bed, or that makeup station. The employees all wore white shirts and black slacks, and the majority of the patrons were dressed in neutrals, blacks and whites. I felt overly conspicuous in my blue shirt and green capris, and just plain gross in my sweaty ponytail. Even worse, Emily and Leah were quickly taken away to the shampoo station, and I was left to Spanish fashion magazines and employees asking questions in Spanish. Leah is the tongue in a situation like this: her Spanish is best, so I made do with hand signs and awkward yes or no questions.
Perhaps half an hour later I was finally guided to the shampoo station. My ponytail was wrestled out and with nary a word to me, thank heavens, a long spray of cool water washed over my scalp. I knew this place would be good, but as soon as the first drop of water pelted me, I knew it would be really, really good. Can you guess why? Because the water was cool. It felt like the water racing down a slide at Raging Waters when you first lay back after a half hour baking in the sun and munching curly fries. It was rejuvenating in the crazy Bolivian heat. Even better, the woman washing my hair didn’t ask if it was the right temperature. She knew. With all of her professional mind reading, or possibly just not caring, she knew that I needed a cold wash. Her strong fingers worked through my thick tangle, and that scalp ache associated with a pony tail disappeared.
Later, with a towel turban, I was left again on the couch to await the cut. I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, after rereading Cosmos from 2006 I was led to the cutting chair. He, the hair cutter, strode down the hall, all business, and started fingering my hair. ‘’Do you speak Spanish?’’ he asked me in English. I answered that yes, I speak a little Spanish, and he directed the next two sentences to me in English. Actually, it was only one sentence: ‘’Do you like your hair long?’’ I answered yes, but my bangs are a disaster. That was all. He tilted my head down, combed my hair over my eyes and attacked me with a spray bottle of water, and a hand full of condition. I could only watch as two and three inch pieces of my hair fell onto my black cape. In the space of about three minutes my hair was thinned. I wasn’t expecting this, as just about every stylist I’ve ever gone to has told me that thick hair is a gift, and she didn’t want to ruin it with layer. I was layered, I was given more sweeping bangs, and I was led out to the couch. I had taken five minutes of the master’s time, and came out with different hair.
We were all supposed to get our hair styled as well, but after a half hour of waiting with no word from stylists, even when we asked, we paid and left. Really, our hair was almost dry anyway.
What is the difference between my hair cut there, and the ones I grew up with, in my bath room, or someone’s basement-gone-salon? Honestly, I think it was only the employees’ I-don’t-care attitude. For the first time I was able to say, ''Do what you think will look best.’’ Wait, I didn’t even say it. He just did that. Anywhere else, the cutter tells me she’s worried that I won’t like it. So while I enjoyed getting my hair cut very much, I think I enjoyed it solely for the novelty: I’m getting a very professional haircut, instead of just a normal professional haircut. It also helped that I was getting it in Bolivia, where everything’s a novelty.