Panic at the Hair Salon: getting a hair cut in a foreign land

It has been six weeks since I got a hair cut -- in Santa Barbara, with my favorite stylist. Kelly knows how to keep my bangs from forming a square (you'd have to see it to understand); how I like the back of my hair to be rounded, not boyish; how much texturizing has to be done to tame the unruly mop on the top of my head. Not only does she know this from practice -- she also speaks English.

At first I thought I could wait until we got settled in Austria. I could find a salon in our town, based on recommendations from people at the school. I speak enough German to explain what I want. I could live a few weeks with longer hair. Alas, I could not. My unruly mop was getting out of control. Being in the lake and letting it airdry was making it even crazier. I had to find a salon.

There is a massive heatwave scorching southern Europe right now (it has a name -- Lucifer. I'm not making this up.) What does that have to do with my hair cut? It is so hot that I don't want to walk more than ten steps outside, and it is so hot that I can barely think straight. So I went to the nearest salon -- right around the corner. No research, no referrals, just winging it.

I should have been suspicious when I was able to get an appointment on the same day I walked in. I should have been even more suspicious when no other customers were there when I arrived for my appointment. Just the girl behind the counter who had made my appointment (stylist/receptionist?), another gal in an apron (apprentice?), and a friend of theirs sitting on a bench looking at her phone and giggling with them when I walked in.

It gave the impression that this alleged stylist was actually a receptionist, and the owner was away. "How fun, I'll cut some hair while my boss is gone!" What could possibly go wrong?

After getting my hair washed by the apprentice, it was time to tell the stylist what I wanted. I had come prepared -- I have pictures on my phone from my "short haircuts" Pinterest board, and I had taken the time to write my wishes into Google translate. Anyone who has used Google translate knows it can be a crapshoot. The stylist read it several times before nodding and handing the phone back to me. I have no idea what it said in Italian.

She got started at the nape of my neck. Not the usual place to start, but what do I know.  The apprentice whispered to her in Italian as she pointed here and there on my head. What if I had gotten this wrong? What if the gal cutting my hair was actually the apprentice, and was practicing on my head?!

I tried to calm myself with the reminder that, "it's just hair. If I don't like it, it will grow back." But I realized it's not just hair. I have given up so many things to move here -- my friends, my house, my kitchen, my garden, most of my clothes, my gym, my minivan (I know which of you dear readers are laughing at that), Mexican food, my routines, my Wall St. Journal subscription (I know who's laughing at that, too). The constant comfort in my life now is my family -- the four of us. What if I look in the mirror and don't recognize the person looking back? What do I have left?

The stylist kept snipping away. I was gaining confidence in her. And then she cut her finger! She and the other gal left me a alone while they bandaged her finger. Bandaged and returned, she cut my hair for a few more minutes. She excused herself again to apply more bandage, as the blood was seeping through the first one. When she came back, she looked like she had a Lego minifigure on her finger -- a mummy.

Despite the clumsiness caused by the bandage, she managed to finish the cut and blowdry. And you know what? It looks pretty good. Certainly better than when I walked in the door.

In order to make a success of walking away from everything familiar, I need to embrace the new. What is the point of leaving home (and all the other stuff) if I simply re-create everything familiar in a new place? Sometimes we have to put our faith in someone else's (slightly bloody) hands.