A Trip to the Salon



A cafe latte at the Cafe Sole in Praiano



Well the day finally came where I couldn’t stand looking at the gray roots in my hair any longer and I would have to visit the local salon. Adriana had told me where it was and to just walk in and talk to one of the ladies who spoke some English. This took a lot of courage for me because a women’s hair salon is a very touchy place. In a woman’s life it ranks right up there with favorite babysitters, manicurists, dog groomers, and cleaning ladies. These are people you need, want, and fear. So entering this domain in a strange country without much of the language and no knowledge of Italian salon etiquette was a big step. I also knew everyone in town would know what I said and did.

I found the salon with no problem. I just could not get the door open. In Italy they don’t care if you die in a fire – all the outer exit doors open inward so in an emergency you are all packed against the door frantically trying to get it open and you die. They have emergency lights in all the rooms if the electricity goes out, but you can’t get the door open if you all race out in a fire. Consequently, I have spent the last 10 weeks banging into doors that won’t budge as I go in and out of buildings. It makes for a really smooth entrance. So I rattled away on the salon door until someone nicely opened it for me. I stumbled in red-faced and looked at an old lady sitting in a white salon coat and said my standard “Non parlo italiano” and she glumly pointed at a young women with long hair. She came over, I told her what I needed, and she spoke relatively decent English. I was expecting to make an appointment and come back some other time and she asks, “Now is ok?” My first reaction was to grab my calendar and check what I had the rest of the day. Then I had about a two second out of body experience where I looked down on myself and realized for the first time in my life since probably kindergarten, this stranger, me,  had absolutely no schedule. I had no reason to say “Well I need to be out of here in an hour, but I can come back in two if you can finish my hair in 45 minutes.” I mean, there was NOTHING I had to do. NOTHING that was required of me that day except food and water. I stood looking at this young woman for a moment completely stunned because I had never had this experience in my recollection. Who was I and what had I become? And for one more split second I saw myself screaming wildly, jumping up and down, ripping my coat off and throwing it the air and laughing hysterically. Instead I simply said “Ok” and entered fully into life without a calendar.

The salon experience alone was probably worth the trip to Praiano. The old lady I first mentioned was the grandmother to the young lady and the mother of the young lady was also working there, so the three generations ran the place. It was very small and not the least slick or spiffed up. This was one of only two places in town to get your hair done, so they have a built in customer base as the other salon is in the other part of town. They don’t take appointments, you just come in and wait and it’s first come, first served. No one reads while they wait, they talk or listen to whoever is talking. You leave your purse wherever and never worry someone would take it. They only have three styling chairs and one hair washing station and very little hygiene. The combs, scissors and brushes are never cleaned between customers and some of the towels are even re-used. When it got really busy, they set up a folding chair in the middle of this small room and put a lady’s hair color on her head right in the middle of everything. The old lady worked on me first, very slowly and with grunts and head pushes as she didn’t know any English. She put the color on my head. As I waited for it to work I watched as mothers, daughters and grandchildren came in together sometimes just to watch Nana get her hair done. I guess it was together time. Other young women came in just to get their hair washed, dried, and finished. As I watched the completion of each hairstyle, the customer would lift her head and close her eyes and the young salon owner would start plucking chin and facial hair, then pull over a messy looking pot of wax, and start waxing their eyebrows and faces. I was starting to worry that might be part of the deal. A darling little two-year-old boy was with his mother and grandmother and was playing with the curlers they use to set the older women’s hair. The curlers were next to me so I would smile and play with him and also got a close look at how all the curlers were filled with hair of many colors and never cleaned between clients. Lovely. The mother, about my age, came and washed my hair and cut it and then her daughter asked if I wanted it blown dry or in curlers. I definitely did not want the curlers so I opted for the blow dry. As I watched the young girl talking away as she was blow drying someone’s hair, it was quite funny watching an Italian trying to talk while working with both hands. She had a dryer in one hand and a brush in the other and was talking rapidly and loudly to be heard over the motor sounds. Every 10-20 seconds she had to stop drying the hair because whatever she was saying just could not be said without raising both the dryer and brush arm up in the air and waving them dramatically around for emphasis. I could not help thinking how much faster things would go if they didn’t talk. Luckily, the mother did not take tweezers to me and I got out with my hair looking quite nice. Phew!

As I left the salon I saw a small convenience store I hadn’t been in across the street with a car parked in front of it. A Large man was standing out in front leaning on the door and I figured that was the proprietor so I thought I would go over and check it out. As I got around the car I saw the man was wearing a skirt. Oops. She was very manly looking and sounding, and one of those really intimidating types of women that every grade school has as a teacher and you pray you never would get. She turned out to be very nice and patient with my bad Italian and helped me with what kind of water wouldn’t be too heavy to carry. It is absolutely amazing what sort of communication you can have with people if you are willing to make a fool of yourself. When I got to the foot of my stairs I was in a quandary. I needed food from my little market that the convenience store didn’t have, but I didn’t want them to know I bought food somewhere else. I decided to trust the people of Praiano and leave my bag on the stairs where the market people would not be able to see it, and hope for the best. My faith was rewarded and there on the stairs sat my other bag just waiting for me when I finished my other shopping. All I had to do was lug it up my cursed staircase!

I hate those stairs. Hate, hate, hate. They kill my back, lungs, knees and thighs. You know what the stairs represent? Life. Not that I hate my life, but there are times in life I hate it, or things in life I hate. (Like diets) I would not climb those stairs if they did not take me to such a great place with such fantastic views. It wouldn’t be worth the pain. However, the stairs are making my heart and lungs stronger, my thighs steadier to help stabilize my knees, and they bring me to a wonderful place. So the stairs are a metaphor for my life. My body, heart and soul, are perfected by  physical, mental and spiritual work and trials  - the stairs. The garden, the balcony, the unspeakably beautiful views are the heaven that God’s love beckons me toward. Praiano – God’s workshop!