Bad Hair Day in Buenos Aires
Trip Start Dec 01, 2008
33Trip End Apr 20, 2009
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I couldnīt tolerate the rats-tail hair effect any longer, it having been 4 months since my last trim, and so, instead of waiting just a couple more weeks till I reach the UK, I foolishly succumbed to temptation here in BA...
It made no difference that I had sought the advice of the lovely Laura who works in the wee hostel in which I am staying... it didnīt occur to me that, with her own luxuriant, thick, wavy locks, her recommendation of a good īcutting artistī was not necessarrily going to be relevant to me, with the extremely un-luxuriant, thin, straight stringy mess of stuff growing out of my head. All was fine as Ádrian and I made the usual small talk... things only deteriorated when he started holding up handfuls of hair and, in that half pitying, half accusing tone unique to hair stylists, began to comment on its lack of body, texure, style, life, and, of course, the terrible condition it was in, before telling me, sadly, that there wasnīt really much he could do with it, other than trim it.
I resisted the urge to punch him very hard and tell him I hadnīt actually chosen it and, after living with it for 42 years, I was resigned to it, while all he had to do was put me out of my misery by trimming it without comment., as fast as possible, so I could get out of his torture chamber! It doesnīt matter where in the world I go, thereīs always a local hairdrsser available to make me feel inferior! I sidled out of the door nearly an hour later, feeling humiliated, hair flopping miserably, and wondering if there was a wig shop anywhere in the city...
As I stepped out into the sunshine and pulled my sunglasses out of my bag, I managed to drop them and tread on them, requiring me to spend a further hour on another intensely-disliked and highly frustrating activity... clothes shopping (yes, glasses count as clothes!) Having scared several shop assistants with my scowl, as I tried on numerous ridiculous-looking pairs of protective eyewear, I finally selected a cheap pair and left the shop, wishing at least one of the staff therein had had the decency not to have fabulous, big, exotic hair...
My return to Buenos Aires was not going well, I reflected, as I walked down the avenida, flinching at the sounds of the screaming buses passing me. I had arrived the previous afternoon after a five hour flight on which I was ravenous and there was no veggie meal; the subway was closed when I got off the airport bus and I had no idea of the hostel address or location to give to a taxi driver ( I had stayed there before and knew how to arrive by subway, but not the name of the street or station, without getting into the closed station to look at the map...) so paid for an hour-long, pricey cruise through rush hour traffic, looking randomly for a landmark I knew...; the delicious-at-the-time saag paneer, from the Indian restaurant I discovered, landed me in the toilet for three hours in the middle of the night; I had had a humiliating encounter with a confidence-shattering scissor wielder; suffered a terrible haircut; and broken my sunglasses... there was only one thing for it...
Three hours later, I had tried on fourteen pairs of boots, and was sitting eating chocolate ice-cream, feeling very pleased with the loud pink, heeled pair to which I had treated myself as my Argentine souvenir...! You may have fantastic hair, all you Argentine girlies, but I bet you donīt have a boot collection like I do! Though perhaps I should have opted for a more pointy pair, with which to inflict maximum damage on my next hairderesser...?!