The search for chic

Nytåret er den travleste tid i en frisørsalon. Alligevel er det første jeg får en modtagelse med åbne arme, og tilbud om kaffe eller te, mens jeg bliver mast ind i køen af damer der skal nytårsstudses. Og jeg siger ja, for godt nok havde jeg derhjemmefra tænkt at det var ved at være på tide at få ordnet lokkerne, men hernede føles det (som utvivlsomt nævnt tidligere) meget akut. Så efter en formiddagslur forekommer en udflugt til den lokale salon at være en helt rimelig plan.

Som sagt er der travlt. Og vi ender med at være der en hel eftermiddag. Men jeg keder mig ikke et sekund, for selv om jeg ikke kan sproget, er det som at være med til en privat pigefest. Der er stemning og god musik, der er damer der får vokset overskæg, og mest fascinerende af alt: en pige fjerner ved hjælp af sytråd i en snedig løkke alle de småbitte hår vi har på kinder, hage, pande, you name it. Jeg får en lille prøvebehandling for lige at mærke det (ikke decideret smertefuldt; heller ikke vanvittig behageligt) men afstår fra den store tur. Jeg kan godt huske første gang jeg barberede ben - så har man sat noget i gang, man er nødt til at blive ved med, og jeg kender ingen sådanne sytrådskunstnere i Danmark. I øvrigt vil jeg gerne forblive i illusionen om at hårfjerning i ansigtet ikke er noget jeg behøver at bekymre mig om. Endnu.

Flere timer senere har jeg forsøgt at fortælle gudesmuk pige at en næseoperation virkelig ikke er nødvendig, har øvet mit "godt nytår" mange gange i praksis, samt fået smukke velformede øjenbryn med i købet, hvorefter jeg tager min nye frisure og går direkte ud i en mægtig regnbyge. Min timing kan ingen i verden tage fra mig.

@N ~ I went to bed around 6AM when I got here. About five hours later I am awake, being fed a delicious breakfast, and generally up for anything. So a trip to the hair dressers seems just the ticket. Especially considering the ever-growing feeling of un-chic-ness I have lamented before.

New Years is without a doubt their busiest time but I am welcomed with smiles, open arms, and offers of cups of tea as I sit down to watch the goings-on while they squeeze me into their over-booked schedule. We end up spending the entire afternoon there and I wholeheartedly mean it when I say that this was better than any cultural outing we could have gone on. I am not bored for a second. Event though I don't understand half of what's being said, it's very much like being at a private girls party. There's laughter, singing, music and jokes. There are ladies getting facial waxes. And most fascinating of all, there is a girl who removes facial hair using only a piece of thread in a sort of intricate loop. It works just like tiny scissors or maybe tweezers, but isn't actually painful I find. But she only does a few sample "snips" on me as I don't particularly want to launch a hair removal habit which will be very difficult to keep up in Denmark. All too well I remember the first time I shaved my legs. It's like unleashing a monster. And I don't know any thread artist back home. Also, I'd kind of like the illusion that this, at least, is an area of beauty maintenance I don't need to concern myself with. Yet.

It's several hours later when we exit the salon. I've tried to explain to a goddess-like beauty that really, a nose job is not necessary; I've practiced my "happy new year" numerous times; and my eye brows look great. As the heavens open and heavy rain flattens my new haircut, I pride myself that my timing is at least as impeccable as my well-groomed eye brows. Hey-ho.

Other news: I have corrected my notes on sabzi polow (an Iranian rice-and-herb dish for which I had botched up my notes). We're off to exchange my money tomorrow and then I will become a millionaire, of sorts. And I'm getting used to the traditional middle eastern toilet, which makes me prouder of myself than I can say.

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