I was living in Spain and my boyfriend knew my work was intense and sometimes stressful, so he treated me to a haircut in a fancy salon in Madrid.
The staff oohed and aahed over me. They gave me an espresso in a chunky silver cup and a chocolate on a small silver plate. They coddled me for about almost two hours and when I left, I felt divinely positive that I looked marvelous.
Then I got into an elevator that had mirrors. I tried to see the back of my head. There seemed to be a whole swatch of hair missing. Couldn’t be. I ran my hand over my head. There was no smooth flow of hair.
I looked again. This was no neatly layered look. Heck, this wasn’t even a punk look. This was a “someone-has-the-mange-look.”
I started to sob. I called my boyfriend, “You Span-iards!” I blamed the whole country for this.
My boyfriend tried to calm me down, “Just go back and tell them to fix it. It cannot be that bad, this is a very good salon.”
“It is MY hair! It looks like rats have been at it!”
“Why did you not say something when you were there?”
“They gave me chocolate and espresso. They distracted me!”
“Look, I will meet you at the hair place in an hour, okay? We will fix this, okay?”
“Okay, okay, but it’s not your hair…”
We did go the salon together. The stylists grouped together, “Well we can just shave the back of her head. It is just that her hair, it is Anglo-Saxon hair. Anglo-Saxon hair is very hard to cut.”