the most reckless decision i've ever made

I know. I know. You read the title and think to yourself, "Why Jacqui, you recently moved to a country where you don't speak the language, to take on the task of teaching young impressionable minds English, EVEN THOUGH YOU DON'T LIKE KIDS... now what could possibly be more reckless than that?!"


Oh, well, I don't know, maybe getting a haircut there. And, because if I'm going to do something stupid, why half-ass it? Quiero cambiar el color, tambien. 


Yep, that's right. I had one of my serious existential, identity crises today, and had to change it up. Sure, I know people who have bungee jumped off bridges naked (hola chica sueca!) and who are about to embark on journeys throughout Asia, where they will be mowing down on puppies and kittens and more mystery meat than a high school cafeteria (annyong, Ray!) but hey... going to a hairdresser in Spain? This was MY moment of daring. 


And WOW. What an adrenaline rush. I originally was going to go to a place where a few friends had gone for bikini waxes- hey, if they don't screw that up, I'll trust 'em. Naturally, I needed to make a reservation, but I know myself well enough to know that if I didn't do this today, it wasn't gonna happen. Thus, I walked into the next peluquería on the Alameda Principal. Clearly this was a classy establishment, judging from the absence of customers and neon pink lighting. Whatev, I'm in Spain- am I ALLOWED to be choosy? Plus I was already in the door and chatting up the little old lady, I guess I was committed. So first off, I apologize for my Spanish, then try to get across that I want a little bit of hair chopped off, but I want layers, and that I want to change the hair color. Okay. Got it. I think. 


So then I choose my hair color from a carta (remember that word, mis padres? Probablemente, no.) and have that slathered on my head. At that point, I am left alone for the requisite 30 minutes, although it felt like 4 hours, for the color to set or whatever. Naturally, at this point, as I am listening to the Spanish equivalent of Oldies 103.3, all kinds of terrible thoughts are coursing through my mind: "Oh no, she definitely hates Americans, she is dying my hair orange, she entirely forgot about me.. is this burning more than usual? HOW DO I SAY MY SCALP IS ON FIRE IN SPANISH?" 


Clearly, nothing was wrong. Except perhaps for something in my brain. 


Then I have to try to convey what I want to do with my hair. I basically just kept saying "un poquito, un poquito, un poquito" with escalating fear in my voice.  At one point, we almost had to tag-team in a different hairdresser 'cause my chica couldn't figure out what I was saying, and who can blame her???


But in the end, the hair turned out okay. And I think me and my hairdresser really formed a bond, as she kept asking me to turn my head "arriba, hija" (hija = daughter, general term of endearment). Now that I've conquered this first hurdle, let's see how frequently I change my hair in the next five months.