Let’s just say, I felt the need to call home and ask hubbs not to laugh when he first saw me. I don’t know what made a bigger impression – the fact that I felt like a cross between a St. Bernard and a 1960s game show host, or that I paid under $10 for a nearly-decent (read: better than Fantastic Sams) haircut. Here it is after about 10 minutes of smoothing it down and ‘deflating’ it.
My Romanian is great for a general conversation, but when it comes to telling the stylist about layers and thinning and I’m going for a finger-stylable short shag, I’m lost. So, I went with my old standard that I used all the time in English-speaking American salons. “Just have fun with it, give it some shape and make it look nice.” In the US, that turns the stylist into an artist and he or she loves the freedom that comes with being able to shape and mold as they wish. And I just about always get a great cut, because the stylist does what they do best.
Here, that same request is met with disdain and condescension. The stylist actually said to me, “How am I supposed to read your mind? I don’t know what you think looks nice. I’m a stylist, not a mind-reader.” Of couse, when I told her where I thought it was too long and too thick, her response was, “No it’s not.” Nice. She can’t read my mind, but she can certainly tell me I’m wrong about my hair.
This is not a think-outside-the-box society. Nor is it a use-your-imagination and be-creative type of place. Right and wrong are very black and white, as are roles, rules, and order in general. Rules are of utmost importance, and one should follow them always, even when they aren’t tenable.